tXES  <fc  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


MATHEMATICAL  WORKS, 

IX  A  SKUIKS  OF  THREE  PARTS  : 

ARITHMETICAL,   ACADEMICAL,   AND   COLLEGIATE, 


This  PC 

experiei 
method 
same  an 
eompre 
branchi 
al  \Vest 
have  p:i 
United  i 


.'i,  i 

har 


Point 


BY    CHARGES    DAVIES,   L,L,.D. 

>mbining  all  that  is  most  valuable  in  the  various  methods  of  European 
nprovcd  and  matured  by  the  suggestions  of  more  than  thirty  years 
o\v  tunas  the  only  coini»lete  consecutive  Course  of  Mathematics.  Its 


nni/.:iiLr  as  the  works  of  on 
and   tiie  same  laws  of  as.- 


lind,  carry  the  student  onward  I 
>dation,  and  are  calculated  to  imj 


irt  a 
eral 


L:    knowledge  of  the    science,   combining   clearness    in   the 
imiiy  and  proportion  in  the  whole.     ISeiiiu'  the  system  so  long 
through  whim  so  many  men,  eminent  for  their  scientific  attainments 
uid  having  been  adopted  as  Text  Hooks  by  most  of  the  colleges  in  the 

it  may  be  justly  regarded  as  our 

NATIONAL  SYSTEM  OF  MATHEMATICS. 


I.    THE  ARITHMETICAL  COURSE  FOR  SCHOOLS. 

1.  PRIMARY  TABLE-BOOK. 

2.  FIRST  LESSONS   IN   ARITHMETIC. 

'3.  SCHOOL  ARITHMETIC.     (Key  separate.) 

4.     GRAMMAR  OF   ARITHMETIC. 

II.    THE  ACADEMIC  COURSE. 

1.  THE  UNIVERSITY  ARITHMETIC.     (Key  separate.) 

2.  PRACTICAL   GEOMETRY  AND   MENSURATION. 

3.  ELEMENTARY  ALGEBRA.     (Key  separate.) 

4.  ELEMENTARY   GEOMETRY. 

5.  ELEMENTS   OF  SURVEYING. 

III.    THE  COLLEGIATE  COURSE. 

1.  DAVIES'  BOURDON'S  ALGEBRA. 

2.  DAVIES'  LEGENDRE'S  GEOMETRY  AXD  TRIGONOMETRY, 

3.  DAVIES'  ANALYTICAL  GEOMETRY. 

4.  DAVIES'  DESCRIPTIVE  GEOMETRY. 

5.  DAVIES'  SHADES,  SHADOWS,  AND'PERSPECTIVE. 

6.  DAVIES'  DIFFERENTIAL  AND  INTEGRAL  CALCULUS. 


THE  TEACHER'S  MATHEMATICAL  TEXT  BOOK  AND  CHART. 

1.  DAVIES'  LOGIC  AND  UTILITY  OF  MATHEMATICS. 

2.  DAVIES'  NORMAL  CHART  OF  MATHEMATICAL  SCIENCE. 


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POEMS 


OF 


SENTIMENT  AND  IMAGINATION, 


Dramatic  ana  teriptine   ta. 


BY 

FRANCES  A.  AND  METTA  V.  FULLER, 


NEW  YORK: 
A.  S.  BARNES  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS, 

NO.    51    JOHN    STREET. 

1851. 


I.itU'red,  according  to  Act  ol  Congress,  in  the  year  1850,  by 

A.  S.  BARNES  &  CO., 
in  tiit-  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


STEREOTYPKD  BY  BANER  AND  PALMER, 

201  William  Street,  corner  of  Frankfort,  N.  Y. 


TO   OUR  DEAR  MOTHER, 

THIS, 

(Diir 


IS 

GRATEFULLY    AND    AFFECTIONATELY 

Inscrib^ir. 


M785395 


AUTHORS'  PREFACE. 


IN  ushering  to  the  world  of  letters  this  book  cf  thoughts  and 
feelings,  germed  in  the  seclusion  of  a  dreamy  youth,  the 
authors,  it  may  be  conceived,  had  not  the  fear  of  criticism  in 
their  minds,  else,  perhaps,  polish  and  elaboration  might  have 
insured  more  finished  compositions.  Many  of  the  poems  now 
collected  have  before  appeared  through  various  literary  medi 
urns,  and  to  alter  or  remodel  is  a  distasteful  as  well  as  difficult 
task.  It  is  easy  even  now  to  perceive  the  crudeness  which  it 
will  require  years  of  thought  and  experience  to  mould  into  a 
pure  and  elevated  style ;  but  for  this  work,  it  is  asked  of 
friends  and  critics,  that,  viewing  it  as  the  first  fruit-offering 
of  young  hearts,  they  "  with  all  its  faults  will  love  it  still." 


CONTENTS, 


POEMS  BY  FRANCES  A.  FULLER. 

PAOK. 

THE  VOLUNTEER,          .         .         .         .         .         •  •  .11 

THE  POST-BOY'S  SONG,         .         .         .         .         .  •  .15 

THE  DESERTED  CITY,    .         .         .         .         .         .  •  .17 

FOREST  SPIRITS  J  OR,  THE  WOODS  OF  THE  WEST,    .  .  .20 

ELOISE,          .  .  ........  24 

DREAMINGS    OF    LIFE, 29 

KATE,  ..........  35 

THE    OLD    MAN'S    FAVORITE,  .......  36 

QUEEN  MARY'S  LOVER,         .......     38 

A  REVERIE, 40 

THE  POET'S  HARP  OF  SORROWS, .42 

DARKNESS, 44 

BEAUTY, 45 

ONE    OF    OUR    POETS, 47 

A    DUET, 48 

THE    MIDN7IGHT    BANNER, 52 

THE    COUNTRY    ROAD, 54 

SONG    OF    THE    EAGLE, 56 

AUTUMN,      ....••••••  57 

THE  DYING  POET, .59 

JUDAS'  REMORSE,         .         .         •         •         •         •         •         .61 
THOUGHTS  OF  THEE, 63 

THE  GRAVE  OF  L.  E.  L.,    .      .      •      .     •      •      .65 

FOREBODING, 66 

MY  LOVE,  ..........   68 

HEART-BREATHINGS, .69 

THE    DEAD    LOVER, .  .       70 

TO    , 72 

LOVE, 73 

NIGHT    WHISPERS,  ........       75 

SMILES, 77 

TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  COQUETTE, 78 

SNOWDROPS,        .........  79 

BIRTHDAY  OF  AUTUMN, 81 

THE  HEART'S  REQUIEM,         .  83 

"  MY  SOUL  is  DARK,"  .  85 

A    LETTER,  .........       86 

A    SCRAP    FROM    MY    PORTFOLIO, 88 


CONTENTS. 


TO  ONE  WHO  BADE  ME  "  GO  WIN  A  NAME,"        .         .  .89 

MADELINE,            ......  90 

TO  EDITH  MAY,            .         .         .         .         .         .         .  .     91 

THE  RIVER'S  SECRET, .93 

RESOLUTION, .95 

TALE  OF  THE  FOREST, .96 

INDIAN  SUMMER,            .....                     .  97 

THE  TALISMAN, .99 

THE  TWENTY-FOUR  HOURS, .101 

VISION  OF  THE  POOR, .112 

CROZAT'S  DAUGHTER,  .         .         .         .         .         .         .  .117 

KEATS, 128 

AZLEA, .133 


POEMS  BY  METTA  VICTORIA  FULLER. 

THE    POET    LOVERS,         .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .169 

LELLA, 196 

ANGELS, 198 

FRAGMENT, £00       ,1 

INA, 201 

THE    SILENT    SHIP,  . 202 

THERE    IS    A    DREAM    I    CHERISH, 204 

LINES    TO    A    POETESS, .207 

MIDNIGHT, 209 

THE    SPIRIT    OF    MY    SONG, .211 

THE    DREAMER,      .  . .212 

LINES, 216 

TO    WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT, 218         ! 

A    SUMMER    STORM,  ........    220 

STARLIGHT,  .  . .222 

PLEADINGS, 224 

THE    POET'S    DECLARATION, 225 

THE    DEAD    MOTHER,       . 228 

HUMILITY, 229 

DEATH    AT    MIDNIGHT, 231 

ENDURANCE, 235 

THE    WINDS, 238 

A    ROMANCE, 242 

THE    SETTING    SUN, 248 

TO  -, 249 

THE  POET'S  COMPLAINT, .254 

FRAGMENT, 258 

THE    FIELD    OF    LILIES,  ....  .261 


POEMS 

BY     FRANCES     A.     FULLER 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 

"  NIGHT  hath  made  many  bards,  she  is  so  lovely  ;' 
But  in  the  South's  bright  clime,  of  which  I  speak, 
Night  holds  her  court  in  glory.     There  she  seems 
To  center  all  her  softness  and  her  light, 
To  make  a  focus  of  her  loveliness  ; 
And  weaving  in  her  dark  veil  myriad  stars, 
Blending  their  clear  light  with  the  softer  beams 
Of  a  most  queenly  moon,  she  strives  to  make 
Atonement  for  the  burning  glare  of  day 
With  such  a  world  of  sweetness,  poetry, 
Flowers  and  perfume,  witching  light  and  shade, 
Murmuring  music,  and  soft  falling  dew, 
As  would  have  made  a  gala-night  in  Eden. 
'Twas  such  a  night  as  this,  when  o'er  the  earth 
Stole  every  form  of  loveliness.     The  air 
Sighed  faintly  with  its  burden  of  perfume, 
And  lifted  on  its  wings  the  golden  light 
That  streamed  in  waving  pennons,  fluttering 
To  the  slow  motion  of  some  zephyr's  wing. 
Night's  sensitive  flowers  had  oped  their  starry  eyes, 
Undaunted  by  the  moon's  love-looking  face, 
And  breathed  their  sweetness  to  the  gentle  wind 
As  coyly,  yet  as  tenderly  as  girls 
Whisper  the  first  confession  of  their  love. 
All   neath  that  sky  was  loveliness  and  peace, 


12  THE     VOLUNTEER. 

Save  where  upon  a  wide  and  grove-bound  plain 
Lay  the  white  tents  of  soldiers,  and  the  drum 
Beat  the  tattoo  that  warned  them  to  repose, 
Or  the  guard's  sleepless  vigil. 

But  one  heard 

The  solemn  beat  of  that  tattooing  drum, 
To  whom  e'en  weariness,  and  a  day's  toil 
Beneath  a  torrid  sun,  could  not  win  sleep. 
He  with  the  form  towering  and  graceful, 
And  yet  delicate — a  boy  in  seeming. 
The  high  pale  brow,  and  the  dark  wavy  hair, 
Have  a  fine  placid  beauty  ;  but  the  eye, 
Save  now,  when  tears  are  in  it,  has  a  fire 
That  makes  the  face  seem  fearful  ;  and  the  lip, 
Used  to  compression,  has  the  bent  of  scorn — 
A  dark,  fierce,  bitter  scorn — the  scorn  of  hate. 
But  he  is  softened  now  ;  the  scene,  the  time, 
Have  found  a  soul-spring  in  his  stormy  being  : 
And  thoughts  have  come  of  a  time  like  to  this, 
When  he  was  sinless,  and  when  love  first  fell 
Upon  his  wayward  heart.     But  like  the  dew 
Within  the  calyx  of  some  noxious  flower, 
li  but  distilled  its  poison,  and  his  soul 
Steeped  deadliness  within  it.     She  he  loved 
Was  like  a  star  to  him,  she  was  so  pure  ; 
A  fair  young  creature,  with  a  quiet  face, 
And  an  eye  clear  as  heaven,  and  as  starry. 
Yet  was  there  beauty  in  her  quietness  ; 
As  a  lake,  when  'tis  waveless,  looks  most  deep. 
And  her  he  loved — and  'twas  perchance  because 
That  she  was  so  unlike  him  that  she  gave 
More  scope  to  his  impetuous  nature  than  would  one 
Who  could  be  wild  as  he  was.     But  he  loved — 
No,  worshiped  had  been  better  said  than  loved — 
For  he  had  set  her  image  in  his  heart, 
And  bowed  him  down  like  an  idolater, 
In  impious  adoration,  ere  he  knew 
Or  hardly  cared  to  know,  that  she  would  look 


THE    VOLUNTEER. 

~ | 

With  warmth  upon  his  passion.     He  dreara'd  not 

That  one  so  gentle  could  turn  from  the  power 

Of  the  same  spell  that  bound  him.     But  he  found, 

Too  late  to  save  his  peace,  her  heart  preferred 

The  homage  of  another.     Then  sprang  forth 

The  demon  in  his  nature.     With  a  howl 

He  fled  through  night  and  darkness,  recking  not 

Of  men's  thoughts  or  of  danger.     On  he  went, 

Gnashing  his  teeth  with  rage,  and  hissing  out 

Curses  upon  his  rival.     Thus  was  spent 

The  first  burst  of  his  fury  ;  then  there  came 

A  darker  spirit,  with  a  deadlier  aim, 

And  counseled  with  the  demon  in  his  heart, 

And  it  consented.     Ere  the  stars  had  looked 

Upon  another  meeting  of  the  lovers, 

One  slept  in  death  ;  and  he,  the  assassin,  stole 

A  look  of  triumph  on  his  bloody  work, 

Then  fled  to  serve  Iiis  COUNTRY  !     He  saw  not 

His  bitterest  revenge,  the  helpless  grief 

Of  her  who  died  of  madness. 


Tuas  this,  the  story  of  her  pitiful  death, 
And  her  long  suffering  first,  that  woke  once  more 
The  inner  wells  of  feeling,  and  drew  tears, 
The  first  had  moistened  his  wild,  burning  eye 
For  many  terrible  months.     For  hours  he  wept, 
Till  drowsiness,  like  a  nepenthe,  soothed 
His  wakened  feeling,  and  sleep  came  with  dreams. 
In  thought  he  wandered  weary  o'er  the  earth, 
Seeking  a  place  to  hide  himself  from  men  ; 
But  all  the  world  was  peopled,  and  the  crowds 
That  met  him  everywhere,  all  looked  on  him 
With  their  astonished  eyes,  as  if  to  say, 
"  How!  art  thou  here  ?"  and  children  shrunk  away, 
And  peered  at  him  from  out  each  window  nook, 
Mocking  at  him,  yet  fearing  to  be  seen. 
Nowhere  was  solitude ;  he  had  grown  old 
Seeking  for  rest  that  he  might  never  find ; 
2 


1  I  THE    VOLUNTEER. 


And  now  he  sat  him  on  a  church's  steps, 
Fainting  from  utter  helplessness  and  want. 
A  crowd  swept  by  him.     On,  with  stately  step, 
Came  a  procession,  headed  by  a  bier 
Shrouded  with  sable  drapery  of  grief. 
They  were  the  first  that  had  not  heeded  him, 
And  wondering  with  a  strange  happiness 
If  he  had  not  been  dreaming  all  his  woe, 
He  followed  the  procession  to  the  vault, 
Beneath  the  marble  pavement  of  the  church, 
And  saw  them  lift  the  coffin-lid  once  more 
Ere  its  pale  inmate  perished  from  their  sight  ; 
When  lo  !  the  corpse  sat  upright,  and  its  hand, 
Wasted  and  fleshless,  pointed  straight  at  him  ; 
And  the  eyes  gazed  with  terror ;  and  the  lips 
Breathed  a  low  wail  of  fear,  and,  quivering,  closed  ; 
Then  the  corpse  sank  back  motionless  again. 
Enough  for  him.     Even  the  haggard  face, 
And  hair  more  white  than  silver,  could  not  make 
His  heart  deceive  him.     'Twas  her  altered  form. 
The  crowd  turned  to  him  when  that  bony  hand 
Pointed  him  out,  and  when  surprise  was  past, 
Rushed  with  a  yell  upon  him.     Thus  he  woke. 
The  morning  drum  proclaimed  the  time  was  near 
When  deadly  contest  between  foe  and  foe 
Required  his  soldier's  spirit,  and  he  shook 
The  influence  from  him  of  that  dreadful  dream, 
And  went  forth  to  the  struggle. 

Night  came  again,  and  closed  the  scene  of  strife- : 
But  not  a  night  of  beauty.     'T would  have  mocked 
Too  much  the  desolation  of  the  blood-stained  earth, 
Had  beaming  skies  looked  on  it.     Flying  clouds 
Belted  the  moon  with  mourning;  and  the  wind 
Moaned  hoarsely  through  the  tree-tops,  that  bent  low 
To  evade  its  rising  fury.     In  this  hour 
A  dying  wretch  uplifted  his  pale  face, 
Praying  for  that  wherewith  to  quench  his  thirst, 


15 


And  cool  his  burning  fever;  and  there  came 

In  answer  to  his  prayer  a  gentle  hand 

Bearing  the  draught  of  water ;  and  a  voice 

Of  sympathy  in  foreign  accent  bade 

The  sufferer  take  courage,  and  revive. 

But  death  was  at  his  heart,  and  gasping  out 

The  name  of  her  whom  he  had  doubly  murdered, 

He  quivered  in  his  agony,  and  died. 

And  the  kind  Mexic  woman,  with  a  sigh, 

Kept  on  her  way  in  mercy,  giving  life 

Alike  to  foe  or  countryman ;  and  all 

Raised  their  weak  hands,  and  blessed  her  as  she  passed. 


THE  POST-BOY'S  SONG. 

THE  night  is  dark,  and  the  way  is  long, 

And  the  clouds  are  flying  fast ; 
The  night-wind  sings  a  dreary  song, 

And  the  trees  creak  in  the  blast : 
The  moon  is  down  in  the  tossing  sea, 

And  the  stars  shed  not  a  ray ; 
The  lightning  flashes  fearfully, 

But  I  must  on  my  way. 

Full  many  a  hundred  time  have  I 

Gone  o'er  it  in  the  dark, 
Till  my  faithful  steeds  can  well  descry 

Each  long  familiar  mark  : 
Withal,  should  peril  come  to-night, 

God  have  us  in  his  care ! 
For  without  help,  and  without  light, 

The  boldest  well  beware. 


16 


Like  a  shuttle  thrown  by  the  hand  of  fate, 

Forward  and  back  I  go ; 
Bearing  a  thread  to  the  desolate 

To  darken  their  web  of  woe  ; 
And  a  brighter  thread  to  the  glad  of  heart, 

And  a  mingled  one  to  all ; 
But  the  dark  and  the  light  I  can  not  part, 

Nor  alter  their  hues  at  all. 

Now  on,  my  steeds  !  the  lightning's  flash 

An  instant  gilds  our  way  ; 
But  steady !  by  that  dreadful  crash 

The  heavens  seemed  rent  away. 
Soho  !  here  comes  the  blast  anew, 

And  a  pelting  flood  of  rain ; 
Steady  !  a  sea  seems  bursting  through 

A  rift  in  some  upper  main. 

Tis  a  terrible  night,  a  dreary  hour, 

But  who  will  remember  to  pray 
That  the  care  of  the  storm-controlling  power 

May  be  over  the  post-boy's  way? 
The  wayward  wanderer  from  his  home, 

The  sailor  upon  the  sea, 
Have  prayers  to  bless  them  where  they  roam — 

Who  thinketh  to  pray  for  me  ? 

But  the  scene  is  changed  !  up  rides  the  moon 

Like  a  ship  upon  the  sea ; 
Now  on,  my  steeds  !  this  glorious  noon 

Of  a  night  so  dark  shall  be 
A  scene  for  us  ;  toss  high  your  heads 

And  cheerily  speed  away  ; 
We  shall  startle  the  sleepers  in  their  beds 

Before  the  dawn  of  day. 

Like  a  shuttle  thrown  by  the  hand  of  fate, 
Forward  and  back  I  go  ; 


THE     DESERTED    CITY.  1*7 

Bearing  a  thread  to  the  desolate 

To  darken  their  web  of  woe ; 
And  a  brighter  thread  to  the  glad  of  heart, 

And  a  mingled  one  for  all  ; 
But  the  dark  and  the  light  I  can  not  part, 
Nor  alter  their  hues  at  all. 


THE  DESERTED  CITY. 

I  HAD  been  weeping — not  the  April  dew 
That  leaves  the  heart  the  lighter  for  the  shedding; 
But  drops  of  anguish,  from  a  fountain  full 
Of  bitter  waters— troubled,  too,  and  deep. 
Till  the  moon  rose  to  the  horizon's  brim 
And  looking  o'er  the  earth  with  a  calm  smile, 
Went  on  her  peaceful  way  among  the  stars, 
I  sat  with  brow  bared  to  the  balmy  breath 
Of  the  soft  breeze  of  evening,  as  it  came 
Whispering  around  me  with  a  lulling  song, 
Kissing  most  tenderly  my  fevered  brow, 
Wooing  the  agony  from  my  wild  pulse, 
And  striving  by  its  blandishments  to  steal 
My  soul  away  into  forgetful  ness. 

And  when  the  moon,  like  a  sweet  white-robed  mother, 
In  all  her  pensive  loveliness  uprose, 
And  went  forth,  with  her  still  white  feet,  among 
The  stars,  her  sleeping  children,  with  a  smile 
Of  mingled  majesty  and  matchless  love, 
I  raised  my  eyes  as  a  lone  orphan  would,    ' 
Longing  for  the  great  bliss  of  tenderness ; 
And  lo !  the  light  of  her  angelic  face 
Was  bent  upon  me— sad,  but  oh,  so  sweet! 
And  by  degrees  my  anguish  wore  away, 


18 


THE    DESERTED    CITY. 


And  the  tumultuous  throbbing  of  my  pulse 

Grew  low,  subdued,  and  gentle ;  and  I  breathed 

My  sorrow  out  in  sighs,  that  were  no  more 

The  deep  convulsiveness  of  bitter  grief. 

And  by  and  by  the  earth  and  I,  her  child, 

Slumbered  in  peace  beneath  the  gentle  reign 

Of  the  fair  queen  of  bright  dominioned  night. 

But  still  I  deemed  that  I  was  by  my  casement, 

And  that  there  lay  beneath  me,  in  the  light 

Of  the  full  midnight  moon,  a  lovely  city  ; 

A  city  beautiful  with  trees  and  fountains, 

And  works  of  grace  and  splendor,  and  high  domes  ; 

Palaces  glittering  in  the  moon's  bright  rays, 

Gleaming  like  alabaster ;  and  broad  streets 

Paved  costlily  with  marble  in  mosaic, 

But  overgrown  with  grass  and  trailing  weeds. 

The  spires,  and  palace-towers,  and  monuments, 

Gleamed  brightly  in  the  moonlight,  but  rank  moss 

Waved  from  the  terraces  to  the  swaying  wind, 

With  a  low,  rustling  sound,  and  full  of  woe. 

No  print  of  feet  was  seen  on  any  door-stone, 

Not  from  one  casement  streamed  the  light  of  lamps, 

But  every  where  had  desolation  stalked, 

Till  not  even  one  of  all  these  palaces 

Owned  lord  or  serf — but  all  were  tenantless. 

And  I  alone  was  the  sole  living  thing 

That  breathed  within  the  city's  silent  walls. 

The  loneliness  was  awful ;  I  stole  down 

From  my  still  chamber  to  the  trackless  street, 

And  onward  still,  from  palace  unto  palace, 

Entering  each  by  the  wide-opened  doors, 

Whose  hinges  were  no  longer  free  to  turn; 

And  flitting  ghostlily  from  room  to  room, 

Pursued  by  phantom  fears,  I  hastened  on. 

The  moonlight  checkered  the  cold  marble  floors, 

And  gleamed  upon  rich  velvet,  and  high  walls 

Hung  with  dark  paintings,  frescoing  their  sides ; 

And  glittered  on  large  mirrors,  that  had  not 


THE    DESERTED    CITY.  19 


Reflected  life  for  many  a  silent  year. 

Volumes  unoped  were  lying  mouldering, 

Vases  whose  flowers  crumbled  to  the  touch, 

Gems  and  rich  ornaments,  were  scattered  round, 

All  useless  and  neglected.     In  a  hall, 

Decked  for  the  revel  of  the  bright  and  young, 

Were  lamps  all  garlanded  with  withered  flowers, 

And  tables  spread  with  rich  untasted  wines, 

And  burdened  with  their  weight  of  services. 

My  fears  grew  tremulous,  and  I  sat  down, 

Reclining  on  the  velvet  now  become 

Faded  and  ruined  for  the  want  of  use, 

And  tried  to  think  of  all  that  had  been  here ; 

But  ever  and  anon  my  fancy  made 

A  sound  to  startle  me  where  none  could  be ; 

And  forms  were  flitting  in  the  twilight  dim, 

Caused  by  the  moon's  uncertain  brilliancy 

Of  grotesque  shapelessness,  and  mocking  me 

With  looks  of  grim  defiance,  'till  my  brain 

Grew  wild  with  terror,  and  I  screamed,  to  make 

A  real  sound  to  fright  away  my  fears. 

But  echo,  waked  from  such  long  slumbering, 

Gave  back  a  hollow  and  hoarse  moaning  voice 

That  made  the  place  more  awful  than  before. 

And  shrieking  in  my  terror,  I  sprang  up, 

Running  from  room  to  room  in  my  despair, 

Until  from  weariness  I  paused,  at  length, 

Within  a  chamber  vast  and  desolate, 

Hung  with  a  solemn  tapestry  of  black. 

Upon  a  throne  of  marble,  plain  and  firm, 

A  giant  skeleton  sat  stark  and  stiff, 

Holding  a  scepter  in  his  bony  hand. 

This,  then,  the  prince  of  all  this  fair  outlay 

Of  wealth — and  loneliness!     I  mused — and  woke, 

My  head  reclining  on  some  few  old  letters 

I  had  been  reading  as  the  twilight  faded. 

How  like  this  city  had  my  heart  become  ! 

Once  it  was  fair,  and  garnished  by  Love's  hand ; 


20        FOREST    SPIRITS  I    OR,   THE    WOODS    OF    THE    WEST, 


But  Love  was  banished,  and  the  monarch  Self, 
Had  died  of  his  own  loneliness.     Once  more 
I  vowed  to  call  Love  from  his  exilement, 
And  make  the  city  all  his  own  again. 


FOREST  SPIRITS ;  OR,  THE  WOODS  OF  THE  WEST. 

KNOW  ye  the  shades  that  inhabit  our  woods, 
The  spirits  that  dwell  in  their  deep  solitudes  ? 
Have  ye  not  heard  them  away  in  the  shade, 
And  listened  with  awe  to  the  sounds  that  they  made  ? 
And  have  ye  not  trembled  with  fear,  when  alone 
Ye  have  heard  in  the  forest  their  low  solemn  tone  ? 
Have  ye  not  heard,  when  the  tempest  was  nigh, 
Their  voice  in  the  wood  like  a  mortal's  wild  cry  ? 
And  did  ye  not  hear,  when  the  storm  was  allayed, 
Their  low  wailing  sigh  stealing  out  o'er  the  glade  ? 
'Twas  the  voices  of  spirits — I  know  where  they  dwell, 
And  oft  have  I  listened  the  tales  that  they  tell. 

Far  away,  in  the  forest's  impervious  gloom, 
Where  the  birds  never  sing,  and  the  flowers  never  bloom, 
Where  the  darkness  is  deep  as  the  midnight  can  be, 
And  the  owl  hoots  all  day  in  his  horrible  glee  ; 
Where  the  snake  and  the  lizard  crawl  over  the  mould, 
And  feast  in  the  darkness,  the  damp,  and  the  cold — 
It  is  here  that  the  spirits  that  shriek  and  that  moan, 
Retreat  when  the  wrath  of  the  tempest  hath  gone. 
And  the  tales  that  they  tell  are  of  wrath  and  of  blood  ; 
Of  the  fight  on  the  plain,  and  the  chase  on  the  flood  ; 
Of  the  whoop,  and  the  yell,  and  the  death  of  the  brave, 
And  of  woman's  wild  wail  o'er  the  warrior's  grave  ; 
O  their  voice  is  as  wild  as  the  ocean-bird's  cry, 
As  it  shrieks  o'er  the  wave,  and   rings  up  to  the  sky ! 


FOREST  SPIRITS  ;     OR,  THE  WOODS    OF  THE  WEST.         21 


But  in  the  deep  shade  of  the  violet  dells, 

Are  the  spirits  that  tell  us  of  lovers'  farewells ; 

And  we  hear  them  at  night  when  the  flower-oping   breeze 

Just  rustles  the  boughs  of  the  leaf-laden  trees. 

They  tell  of  the  love  of  the  dark  forest  maid, 

Of  the  words  that  were  said  'neath  the  willow-bough's  shade ; 

Of  the  anger  of  rivals,  the  challenge  to  fight, 

Of  the  death  of  the  brave,  and  the  funeral  rite  ; 

Of  the  maiden's  mad  sorrow  ;  and  whispering  wild, 

They  tell  of  the  grief  of  the  chief  for  his  child — 

That  beneath  the  lake's  waters,  so  dark  and  so  deep, 

The  maiden  sank  down  to  her  visionless  sleep. 

And  the  girls  of  the  forest  at  evening  brought  flowers, 

The  fairest  that  grew  in  their  wild  woodland  bowers, 

And  scattered  them  over  the  lake's  silver  breast, 

And  chanted  a  dirge  that  the  spirit  might  rest. 

But  'twas  whispered  the  maiden  came  up  from  the  wave, 

To  ramble  at  eve  with  her  warrior  brave ; 

And  the  spirits  that  dwell  in  the  woods  caught  the  tone 

Of  the  maiden's  low  wail  and  the  warrior's  moan  ; 

And  still  at  this  hour,  when  the  breeze  wanders  by, 

Breathe  out  in  the  forest  their  low  mournful  cry. 

Have  you  not  been  where  the  silver  beech  flingeth 
Its  arms  o'er  the  spot  where  the  wood-fountain  springeth  ? 
Where  the  fern  and  the  wild-flower  bend  o'er  its  brim 
To  gaze  on  their  shadows  so  dark  and  so  dim  ; 
Where  the  moss  like  a  carpet  of  velvet  is  spread, 
And  its  roots  are  inwove  with  the  bright  golden  thread ; 
Where  the  wjntergreen  berries  like  ruby-drops  shine, 
And  the  turf  is  embroidered  with  wild  cypress  vine  ; 
Where  the  brave  olden  trees,  towering  up  to  the  blue, 
Let  scarcely  a  glimpse  of  the  golden  day  through  ; 
Where  the  light  is  as  soft  as  the  orange-tree's  bloom, 
And  the  birds  rarely  sing,  overpowered  with  perfume  ? 
It  was  here  that  the  tawny-browed  queen  of  the  wood 
Came  to  dream  of  her  love  in  the  dim  solitude  ; 


22         FOREST   SPIRITS  J     OR,   THE    WOODS    OF    THE  WEST. 

And  the  spirits  that  watched  o'er  her  slumbers  repeat 
In  their  low  silver  voices,  so  clear  and  so  sweet, 
A  thousand  soft  murmurs,  the  tones  of  her  love, 
Like  the  gush  of  a  fountain,  the  coo  of  a  dove ; 

0  their  voice  is  as  thrilling,  their  accent  as  wild, 

As  the  heart  and  the  dream  of  the  dark  forest  child  ! 

Know  3Te  the  spirits  that  dwell  by  the  river 

That  rolleth  its  flood  to  the  ocean  forever ; 

That  rusheth  and  roareth  from  mountain  to  plain, 

'Till  its  thunder  is  lost  in  a  sullen  complain  ? 

Have  ye  not  stood  where  the  torrent  was  breaking 

Its  tide  on  the  rocks,  till  each  echo  awaking, 

Hath  joined  in  the  chorus  with  torrent  and  river, 

And  lengthened  the  anthem  forever  and  ever? 

Have  ye  not  been  where  the  rivulet  leapeth 

On  through  the  shade  where  the  willow-bough  weepeth, 

Glancing  along  in  its  beautiful  motion, 

Till  the  river  hath  borne  it  away  to  the  ocean  ? 

Ah,  there  are  spirits  by  brooklet  and  river, 

Where  the  giant  trees  grow  or  the  frail  flowers  quiver, 

In  the  glen  and  the  dell,  by  the  lake  and  the  fountain, 

In  the  shadowy  wood,  on  the  pine-covered  mountain — 

Not  a  spot  where  the  foot  of  the  white  man  can  tread, 

But  spirits  are  whispering  tales  of  the  dead. 

Proud  forests  !  ye  stately  old  woods  of  the  West, 

In  what  glorious  hues  are  your  aged  boughs  drest! 

How  bravely  ye  stand  in  your  gorgeous  pride, 

Decked  out  in  the  robes  that  old  autumn  hath  dyed ; 

Yet  my  heart  hath  grown  sadder  by  gazing  on  ye, 

And  list'ning  the  voices  that  sigh  from  each  tree, 

For  they  tell  of  the  red  man — the  child  of  the  wood — 

And  his  form  seems  to  rise  in  the  dim  solitude ; 

And  now  when  the  autumn  winds  sigh  through  the  trees, 

His  voice  haunts  my  ear  with  each  swell  of  the  breeze ; 

1  hear  his  low  call,  and  his  step  stealing  by, 

The  twang  of  the  bow,  and  the  bird's  sudden  cry — 


FOREST  SPIRITS  ;    OR,  THE  WOODS    OF  THE  WEST. 


A  thousand  wild  murmurings  tremble  in  air, 

And  startle  my  spirit  with  thrillings  of  fear ; 

Yet  I  love  the  wild  music  for  breathing  the  tone 

Of  ages  gone  by,  and  of  races  long  flown. 

Old  forests  !  ye  stand  in  your  majesty  yet, 

Bearing  proudly  the  seal  by  the  Deity  set ; 

First  temples  of  God — where  His  presence  still  seems 

To  tremble  like  visions  of  angels  in  dreams  ; 

Would  that  never  thine  echoes  might  wake  to  repeat 

The  voice  of  the  white  man,  the  tread  of  his  feet ; 

For  the  shades  which  inhabit  shall  flee  from  thy  dells, 

And  the  shelter  be  torn  from  thy  wild-springing  wells ; 

And  thy  shadowy  recesses,  dim  as  the  night, 

Shall  be  oped  to  the  glare  of  the  summer-day's  light ; 

And  thy  soft  mossy  glades,  by  the  wood-blossom  starred, 

By  the  tramp  of  his  footsteps  be  stricken  and  marred. 

Where  the  pride  of  thy  bosom  now  towers  to  the  skies, 

Shall  a  temple  of  fame  in  the  future  arise  ; 

And  man  in  the  pride  of  his  strength  shall  erase 

Of  the  forest's  wild  grandeur  each  lingering  trace. 

Columbia's  forests !  how  proudly  ye  wave 

O'er  the  white  man's  domain,  and  the  Indian's  grave  • 

Yet  do  ye  not  mourn  that  the  sons  of  thy  shade 

Have  been  driven  away  from  the  homes  they  had  made  ? 

Do  not  the  wild  spirits  in  glade,  glen,  and  dell, 

Echo  mournfully  over  the  Indian's  farewell  ? 

Or  is  it  the  farewell  to  man's  first  abode, 

Murmuring  still  from  thy  branches,  great  wind-harp  of  God  ? 


24  ELOISE. 


ELOISE. 

NIGHT,  lovely  nun,  had  donned  her  sable  vail, 
And  softly  as  a  dream  had  stolen  forth 
From  evening's  shadowy  cloisters,  and  begun 
To  light  her  vestal  fires  in  heaven's  high  vault. 
When  these  were  burning  bright,  she  lifted  up 
The  moon's  great  golden  lamp  to  heaven's  midst, 
And  shrinking  from  the  liirht  herself  had  made, 

O  O 

Fled  to  the  shadows  of  the  woods  and  hills, 
To  keep  her  holy  vigil.     The  tired  earth  slept 
Softly  as  girlhood,  and  the  air  was  still 
As  infant's  breathing,  save  when  from  the  grove 
Came  the  low  murmur  of  dew-dripping  trees, 
And  notes  of  night-birds  singing  to  their  loves. 
But  it  was  burdened  with  the  sweets  of  flowers, 
And  the  rich  fragrance  of  magnolia  trees, 
That  lifted  their  proud,  lovely  heads  afar 
Toward  the  brightness  of  the  beaming  sky, 
As  loving  and  imploring — as  our  souls 
Go  out  in  prayer  to  beauty,  with  a  gush 
Of  holy  tenderness  we  can  not  quell. 

Amid  the  scene,  the  only  unblest  thing, 
Walked  Manhood,  with  his  hot  and  painful  pulse 
Throbbing  with  scarce  less  fever  even  when 
Night's  holy  presence  chided  his  mad  dreams. 
He  walked  and  mused ;  anon  he  flung  his  arms 
With  passionate  vehemence ;  and  low  words, 
Uttered  with  emphasis  that  thrilled  the  air, 
Came  from  his  writhing  lips ;  and  his  bent  head 
Was  lifted  not  toward  heaven — as  if  he  feared, 
Or  had  forgot  its  beauty.     Thus  he  strode, 
Muttering  his  restless  fancies  to  himself, 
And  making  discord  in  night's  silent  hymn, 
Till  from  the  shadow  of  an  orange  grove 


ELOISE. 


25 


Flashed  out  a  sudden  vision  ;  and  a  word 

Like  one  fine  note  of  music  caught  his  ear  : 

"Alberto!" — but  he  started  not  with  joy 

At  the  sweet  bidding.     Sullenly  he  turned 

And  gazed  in  silence,  till  from  very  fear 

Of  this  dark  mood  she  fled  into  his  arms, 

And  nestled  timidly  upon  his  breast, 

And  looked  into  his  face,  and  spoke  again 

His  name  in  softest  accents  :  "  My  Alberto  !" 

Still  did  he  gaze  unmoved,  until  her  tears 

Forced  from  his  lips  their  venom.     "  Eloise, 

Once  to  have  held  thee  thus  within  my  arms 

Would  have  been  bliss  like  heaven's.     But  thou  art  false — 

Most  beautiful,  but  false."      And  with  his  gaze 

Bent  sternly  on  the  pale  and  tearful  face 

Turned  upward  to  his  own,  he  pushed  her  back, 

And  folded  up  his  arms. 

"  Art  thou  not  mad, 
Dearest  Alberto;  or  is  this  a  fraud, 
Though  strange  and  cruel,  used  to  try  my  love  ? 
Tell  me  if  thou  dost  mean  to  test  my  truth." 


"  Thou  hast  no  truth  to  prove,  fair  Eloise  ; 
And  I  say  thou  art  false,  who  loved  thee  most ; 
Then  spare  us  both  these  feints  and  artful  woi^-i. 
I  could  forgive  thee  if  thou  didst  not  play 
The  actress  with  me  now.     And  now  I  go ; 
But  ere  I  go,  I'll  say  I  do  forgive  thee. 
God  bless  thee,  Eloise  !" 

"  One  moment  stay  ! 

Leave  me  not,  or  I  die,  this  hour  and  here. 
My  senses  are  bewildered,  and  this  seems 
An  ill-timed  jest  that  you  will  soon  explain. 
You  can  not  think  me  false.     Oh,  aught  but  this ! 
Tell  me  your  love  is  altered,  or  protest 
That  you  have  never  loved  me :  that  would  give 
3 


26  ELOISE. 


Strength  to  my  pride,  and  I  could  live  and  smile; 
But  part  not  from  me  with  the  cruel  charge 
That  /am  the  one  perjured." 

The  stern  man 

Was  softened  for  a  moment,  and  he  took 
Those  clasped  hands  in  his  own,  and  pressed  a  kiss 
Upon  the  cold,  white  brow,  and  laid  her  head 
Again  upon  his  bosom.     But  the  touch 
Recalled  his  iron  will.     "  Nay,  Eloise, 
Why  should  I  trust  thee  ?     Has  not  all  the  world 
Learned  this  before  I  murmured,  while  I  was 
The  dupe  of  my  own  blindness  ?     Do  not  think 
I  stoop  to  breathe  reproaches.     Never  waste 
A  thought  upon  my  fortunes  ;  for  I  give 
My  heart  henceforward  to  ambition's  race, 
And  worship  fame  alone.     Beauty's  wiles 
Shall  never  stay  my  footsteps — men  shall  be 
The  instruments  of  greatness  to  myself, 
And  I'll  forget  that  ever  I  did  .dream 
This  vain  and  broken  fancy  of  first  love." 

As  if  an  adder  coiled  about  her  form, 
She  started  from  his  arms.     "  Alberto,  hear! 
You  charge  my  soul  with  falsehood  for  no  cause 
Save  the  world's  idle  babble  ;  cruelly 
You  break  asunder  every  tie  that  binds 
My  very  life  to  yours.     I  will  not  say 
Again  that  I  am  innocent,  but  turn 
Your  charge  upon  yourself ;  for  never  love 
Coldly  and  calmly  thus  relinquished  love. 
I  know  the  bane  that  has  distilled  this  ruin. 
Go,  give  your  manhood  to  it !  and  whon  age 
Comes  with  its  weary  heart  and  feeble  pulse, 
Weigh  then  what  you  have  gained  against  your  loss ; 
I  can  divine  the  balance.     Go  ;  farewell !" 

Alberto  gazed  upon  that  hueless  face, 
With  the  dark,  passionate  eyes  now  bright  with  scorn, 


ELOISE.  27 


And  the  lips  ashen  with  the  stifled  pain, 
And  the  proud  form  more  peerless  in  its  pride, 
Till  his  brain  swam  with  dizziness  ;  yet  turned 
And  followed  his  dark  monitor,  Ambition.     *     * 

A  half-score  years  had  fled.     Within  a  room, 
Where  wealth  and  elegance  combined  with  art 
To  make  a  home  for  genius,  as  are  set 
Rich  gems  in  finest  gold,  reclined  a  man, 
The  master  of  the  place.     The  silken  lounge 
Was  placed  beside  a  window,  through  which  stole, 
Waving  the  parted  curtains,  the  sweet  breath 
Of  the  young  spring-time  ;  and  it  stirred  his  hair, 
Dallying  with  the  curls,  until  it  brought 
The  memory  of  a  time  when  a  fair  hand 
Had  parted  those  dark  locks  upon  his  brow, 
And  twined  the  jeweled  fingers  with  their  shreds, 
While  he  pored  over  the  time-honored  tome 
That  fed  his  dreams  of  glory.     And  there  came 
Over  his  heart  a  yearning  to  behold 
The  idol  of  his  youth,  to  which  was  given 
All  his  heart  knew  of  love.     That  one  last  scene, 
Fraught  with  the  destiny  of  both,  came  back 
With  strange  distinctness  ;  and  a  chilling  dread 
Haunted  him  like  a  specter. 

Fame  was  won, 

And  wealth  and  honor  ;  all  he  hoped  and  wished  ; 
Yet  he  looked  back  upon  a  sea  of  strife ; 
And  forward,  a  wide  desert  met  his  view ; 
And  what  at  best  was  life  ?     When  all  was  won, 
Then  the  desire  was  dead ;  and  loathingly 
He  turned  him  from  the  spectacle  that  lay 
Within  the  gilded  temple  he  had  sought. 

Beneath  the  splendors  of  a  southern  sky, 
A  palace  reared  its  walls.     Stately  and  fair, 
It  rose  amid  a  grove  of  flowering  trees, 
Whose  perfume  burdened  all  the  sunny  air. 


28  ELOISE. 


Fountains  gushed  in  the  shade,  and  flowers  bloomed, 
And  vines  were  clambering  over  trellised  walks, 
And  balconies  were  radiant  with  bloom ; 
All  things  without  were  lovely  ;  and  within 
Was  a  charmed  dwelling  ;  so  much  art, 
With  wealth  and  skill,  had  fashioned  that  was  fair. 
But  one  who  came,  paused  at  the  outer  gate, 
And  pondered  long  before  he  took  his  way 
Toward  the  high-arched  portal.     There  he  paused, 
And  laid  his  hand  upon  his  beating  heart 
To  still  its  sickening  tumult. 
Menials  bade 

The  stranger  enter  softly,  for  that  death 
Was  then  within  their  walls.     He  hushed  his  heart, 
And  questioned  of  them  who  had  lately  died  ; 
And  they  told  him  this  story :  "  She  who  lies 
Shrouded  in  yonder  chamber,  has  long  been 
Bereft  of  reason,  though  so  sweet  and  kind, 
And  so  majestic  in  her  daily  port, 
That  none  except  her  household  ever  knew 
The  wildness  of  her  fancies.     But  she  had 
A  phantasy  that  some  one,  one  Alberto, 
Was  gone  upon  a  pilgrimage,  from  which 
When  he  returned  he'd  claim  her  for  his  bride. 
And  so  she  planned  this  palace  and  these  grounds, 
And  furnished  all  things  to  receive  her  love. 
She  had  a  portrait  in  a  certain  chamber, 
Which  she  said  was  Alberto's;  and  a  chair, 
Fashioned  luxuriously,  was  set  beside 
A  table  covered  with  the  choicest  books ; 
And  here  she  sat  sometimes  with  her  guitar, 
On  a  low  ottoman,  beside  that  chair, 
And  thought  that  she  was  listened  to  by  him  ; 
And  would  look  up,  and  smile,  and  chide  his  frowns ; 
But  this  was  only  in  her  wildest  moods. 
At  length  her  reason  came,  and  she  fell  ill, 
And  wasted  with  consumption.     But  she  died 
In  the  room  called  Alberto's. 


DREAMINGS     OF    LIFE.  29 


Our  lady,  sir, 

Was  very  beautiful,  and  you  can  see 
The  corse,  if  you  desire." 

He  followed  them 

To  the  dim  chamber  of  the  white-robed  dead, 
And  saw  them  lift  the  pall,  and  then  he  spoke — 
"/am  Alberto  ;  leave  me  here  alone!" 
Wondering,  they  turned  away,  and  he  knelt  down 
Beside  the  flower-strewn  bier. 

At  eve  they  came 

To  rouse  the  stranger  from  his  mournful  watch  ; 
But  to  their  kind  entreaties  no  reply 
Came  from  the  mourner's  lips  ;  and  when  they  raised 
His  forehead  from  the  bosom  of  the  corse, 
They  quailed  with  terror,  for  he  too  was  dead. 
Her  love  had  come  at  length,  and  Death  had  wed  them ! 


DREAMINGS  OF  LIFE. 

I  SLEPT,  and  in  my  sleep  I  thought 

That  I  was  in  a  dream — 
A  dream  so  earnest  and  so  strange, 

That  even  now  I  deem 
'Twas  more  than  the  vague  phantasies 

With  which  our  slumbers  teem. 

I  thought  'twas  night — 0  such  a  night ! 

A  night  so  strangely  fair, 
When  the  stars  smile  down  so  angel-like, 

And  through  the  lucid  air 
The  moonbeams  poured  in  a  shining  cloud 

Like  a  mass  of  golden  hair  ! 


30  DREAMINGS     OF    LIFE. 


The  shadows  of  the  summer  trees 
Made  columns  dark  and  lono- 

O 

Across  the  brightly  sparkling  turf, 
And  their  leaves  kept  up  a  song — 

A  song  they'd  learned  of  the  dreamy  brook 
That  sung  as  it  flowed  along. 

Oft  have  I  heard  that  tune  at  night, 

As  it  came  from  the  waving  wood, 
When  the  breeze  was  reveling  'mong  the  boughs, 

And  stirring  the  solitude  ; 
And  it  ever  filled  my  youthful  heart 

With  a  wild  and  yearning  mood. 

T  dreamed  that  I  stood  in  a  spot  most  like 

A  place  that  I  had  seen, 
With  its  waving  wood  on  a  moonlit  bank, 

And  turf  of  dewy  sheen, 
And  its  intertwining  canopy, 

With  the  moon  and  stars  between. 

The  river  that  glided  at  my  feet, 

And  trilled  its  murmured  tone, 
Had  a  sound  like  something  I  had  heard 

In  the  blissful  years  agone  ; 
And  I  marveled  how  I  reached  that  place, 

Yet  never  the  change  had  known. 

The  long  grass  waved  from  the  water's  edge, 

And  dipped  in  the  silver  tide ; 
And  its  shadow  laid  on  the  glittering  waves 

As  the  lashes  of  some  young  bride 
Do  droop  o'er  the  clear,  dark,  shining  well, 

Where  her  timid  feelings  hide. 

I  thought  'twas  strange  I  was  standing  there, 
Alone  with  the  midnight  moon, 


DREAMINGS    OF    LIFE.  81 


And  a  shuddering  fear  thrilled  through  my  veins 
As  I  listened  the  night-wind's  tone  ; 

CD  7 

And  as  it  sighed  in  my  unbound  hair, 
I  smothered  a  whispered  moan. 

But  the  vision  that  rose  in  the  yellow  air 

Held  my  shuddering  senses  still ; 
I  could  not  speak,  or  breathe,  or  stir, 

But  a  damp  and  deathly  chill 
Bound  with  its  icy  grasp  my  heart, 

That  it  could  not  even  thrill. 

A  ghostly  form,  with  silver  hair 

Flowing  down  to  his  feet, 
And  a  face  so  dark,  and  withered,  and  wild, 

And  eyes  that  I  dared  not  meet — 
So  stony  and  cold  they  looked  on  me 

From  brows  as  white  as  sleet. 

"  Shall  I  show  thee  life  ?"  he  spoke  at  length, 

But  I  answered  not  for  fear  ; 
And  a  mocking  smile  played  on  his  face, 

So  withered,  and  wild,  and  sere  ; 
And  I  closed  my  eyes  for  a  moment,  till 

That  look  should  disappear. 

But  when  I  looked,  in  its  wonted  tide 

My  blood  flowed  fast  and  free  ; 
And  almost  without  knowing  why 

I  laughed  in  my  careless  glee  ; 
And  naught  at  all  of  the  strange  old  man 

Could  my  happy  vision  see. 

I  seemed  to  stand  on  that  moonlit  bank 

With  a  form  on  either  side, 
Of  friends  I  had  known  in  girlhood's  days 

Ere  either  the  world  had  tried — 
Of  a  girl  in  her  earliest  loveliness, 

And  a  boy  in  youth's  first  pride. 


32  DREAMINGS    OF    LIFE. 

Her  arms  were  twined  about  my  form ; 

I  looked  into  her  eyes  ; 
The  light  that  shone  in  their  starry  depths 

Was  as  clear  as  summer  skies  ; 
And  her  face  had  that  pure  spirit-look 

That  any  sin  defies. 

Her  dark  curls  laid  upon  my  neck, 

Her  clear  cheek  to  my  own, 
And  her  gentle  breath  perfumed  the  air 

Like  hyacinths  half-blown  ; 
While  words  of  sweetest  poetry 

Wreathed  with  her  music  tone. 

The  proud  boy  marked  her  soft,  low  words ; 

His  tones  grew  wild  and  deep, 
And  1  felt  the  heart  so  near  my  own 

More  passionately  leap, 
And  the  warm  blood  to  her  rose-leaf  cheek 

In  a  swift  torrent  sweep. 

And  still  we  three  held  converse  there, 

Beneath  the  midnight  moon, 
Nor  thought  that  the  night  was  waning  fast, 

And  the  stars  would  very  soon 
Grow  wan  and  pale  in  the  misty  air, 

As  if  sinking  in  a  swoon  ! 

The  scene  was  changed.     In  a  vaulted  hall 

I  sat  amid  a  crowd, 
And  round  me  pressed  an  eager  throng 

Of  the  gifted  and  the  proud  ; 
And  all  to  the  might  of  eloquence 

In  quiet  rapture  bowed. 

I  almost  hushed  my  breath  to  hear, 
Yet  strongly  my  heart  beat ; 


DREAMINGS    OF    LIFE.  33 

And  I  dreamed  it  would  be  bliss  to  live 

Forever  at  his  feet, 
At  the  feet  of  him  whose  eloquence 

Was  so  strangely  grand  and  sweet ! 

But  a  sudden  thought  dashed  on  my  brain, 

The  thought  of  that  night  in  June, 
When  a  boy  stood  on  the  river  bank, 

Beneath  the  midnight  moon  ; 
And  I  knew  the  son  of  fame  was  he 

I  had  known  in  years  agone  ! 

Then  I  thought  of  the  girl  with  the  dreamy  eyes, 

But  ere  my  thoughts  were  shaped, 
I  seemed  to  stand  beside  a  bier 

With  sable  velvet  draped  ; 
And  a  man  knelt  there  in  agony, 

Of  which  no  sound  escaped. 

And  I  seemed  to  read  the  hidden  past 

As  it  were  from  out  a  book ; 
I  knew  full  well  why  that  strong  man 

In  such  mute  anguish  shook  ; 
And  I  shrunk  away  from  him,  nor  dared 

Upon  his  grief  to  look. 

He  was  the  boasted  idol-shrine 

Round  which  a  nation  bowed  ; 
And  the  wild  acclaim  of  worshipers — 

The  blinding  incense-cloud — 
Had  hidden  too  long  the  idolater 

Now  folded  in  her  shroud. 

Another  change — and  a  noble  man, 

With  brow  of  kingly  pride, 
Trod  proudly  through  a  glittering  throng 

With  a  fair  girl  by  his  side ; 
And  I  knew  by  her  snowy  vail  and  wreath 

She  was  a  youthful  bride. 


34 


DREAMINGS    OF    LIFE. 


I  remembered  the  fair  and  shrouded  form 

I  had  seen  upon  the  bier, 
And  almost  without  knowing  why, 

My  spirit  quailed  with  fear  ; 
And  though  I  strove  to  be  at  ease 

I  could  not  see  or  hear. 

Once  more  I  stood  on  that  moonlit  bank, 
And  that  old  man  gazed  on  me, 

And  his  stony  eyes  shone  with  disdain 
As  he  asked  "  Wouldst  thou  now  see 

Another  page  in  the  book  of  life — 
A  page  filled  out  for  thee  ?" 

I  could  not  bide  that  old  man's  smile, 
It  shone  through  the  yellow  air 

With  such  a  wild  derisive  gleam, 
And  his  eyes  had  such  a  stare — 

A  stare  so  frozen  and  icy  cold 
That  surely  they  could  not  glare. 

Again  my  curdling  blood  stood  still ; 

I  struggled  to  even  moan  ; 
The  old  man  smiled  a  pitiful  smile, 

And  I  sank  into  a  swoon  ; 
Nor  dreamed  again,  'till  from  my  sleep 

I  was  wakened  by  the  tune 
Of  the  night-wind  in  the  waving  wood, 

And  the  brightness  of  the  moon. 


KATE.  35 


KATE. 

I  KNOW  one — I  wish  you  knew  her, 

Dark-eyed,  rose-lipped,  darling  Kate  ! 
Many  an  eye's  bright  cynosure, 

Many  a  fond  heart's  star  of  fate. 
Stately  as  the  lily-blossom, 

And  as  queenly  and  as  fair  ; 
With  no  sin  in  her  young  bosom, 

On  her  brow  no  shade  of  care. 

Should  you  see  her  you  would  love  her ; 

All  who  ever  knew  her  do ; 
But  I  fear  you  can  not  move  her 

To  confess  that  she  loves  you. 
For  the  little  witch  is  wicked, 

In  a  pretty,  harmless  way, 
And  if  you  should  seem  tormented, 

Would  delight  to  say  you  "  nay." 

Half-a-dozen  dimples  hover 

'Mong  the  roses  on  her  cheek ; 
Should  she  smile,  you'll  soon  discover 

How  they  play  at  hide-and-seek. 
And  her  smile  is  just  the  fleetest, 

Brightest,  most  enchanting  smile ! 
And  her  merry  laugh  the  sweetest 

You  will  hear  in  many  a  mile. 

From  her  pure  and  child-like  forehead 

Many  a  dark-brown  silken  tress, 
Simply  and  demurely  braided, 

Still  betrays  her  loveliness. 
And  the  eyelids'  long  dark  lashes 

Have  a  most  provoking  art, 
Drooping  when  the  soft  eye  flashes 

With  the  truth  of  her  wild  heart. 


36 


Should  she  let  them  smile  upon  you 

With  their  own  peculiar  light, 
Keep  your  heaviest  armor  on  you, 

For  there's  mischief  in  the  sprite. 
If  you  have  the  heart  of  human, 

She  will  pilfer  it  away ; 
And  so  slyly,  how  the  woman 

Got  it  you  could  never  say. 

But  with  all  is  Kate  the  dearest, 
Kindest  little  girl  on  earth ; 

With  an  eye  and  soul  the  clearest, 
And  the  softest  in  their  mirth. 

Stately  as  the  lily-blossom, 
And  as  queenly  and  as  fair, 

With  no  sin  in  her  young  bosom, 
On  her  brow  no  shade  of  care. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  FAVORITE. 

Do  you  ask  where  she  has  fled — 
Fanny,  with  the  laughing  eyes  ? 

Should  I  tell  you  "  She  is  dead," 
You  would  mimic  tears  and  sighs, 
And  pretend  a  sad  surprise. 

Yester-week,  when  you  were  here, 
She  was  sitting  on  your  knee, 

Whispering  stories  in  your  ear 
With  an  air  of  mystery, 
And  a  roguish  glance  at  me. 


Fanny's  heart  was  always  light, 
Light  and  free  as  plumed  bird  ; 

When  she  ginnced  within  our  sight, 
Or  her  merry  voice  we  heard, 
Music  in  our  hearts  was  stirred. 

Ask  you  still  where  Fanny  hides  ? 

I  will  tell  you  by  and  by  ; 
Look  you  where  the  river  glides, 

In  whose  depths  the  shadows  lie, 

Mingled  of  the  earth  and  sky. 

Fanny  always  loved  that  spot ; 

There  her  favorite  flowers  grew — 
Violet,  Forget-me-not, 

And  the  Iris'  gold  and  blue, 

With  its  pearly  beads  of  dew. 

Oft  on  the  old  rustic  bridge, 

Made  of  supple  boughs  entwined, 

Hanging  from  each  margin's  ridge 
Like  a  hammock  in  the  wind, 
Fanny  fearlessly  reclined. 

And  she  told  me,  while  her  eyes 
Filled  with  tears  of  childish  bliss, 

That  she  could  see  Paradise, 
From  her  rocking  resting-place, 
Mirrored  in  the  river's  face ; 

That  she  saw  the  tall  trees  wave ; 

Bright-winged  birds  among  their  bowers ; 

And  a  river  that  did  lave 

Banks  o'ergrown  with  fairest  flowers, 
And  a  sky  more  bright  than  ours. 

Then  she  asked,  with  such  a  smile 

As  an  angel  face  might  wear, 
If  she  watched  a  long,  long  while, 
4 


38  QUEEN  MARY'S  LOVER. 


She  should  see  her  mother  there, 
Walking  in  the  groves  so  fair. 

When  to  soothe  the  child  I  said, 
She  should  see  mamma  in  heaven, 

To  that  frail  old  bridge  she  sped 
As  if  wings  to  her  were  given  ; 
And — but  look — you  see  'tis  riven ! 

Ah  !  you  start — your  looks  are  wild — 
Calm  yourself  old  man,  I  pray  ; 

Fanny  was  an  angel  child, 

And  'tis  well  she's  gone  away 
To  her  Paradise  so  gay  ! 


QUEEN  MARY'S  LOVER. 

THINE  the  warrant,  lovely  Mary,  thine  the  hand  that  writes  my 

doom  ! 

Thou  shalt  see  how  dies  a  lover  when  his  mistress  opes  his  tomb ; 
Matchless  Mary,  divine  Mary,  Love's  and  Beauty's  peerless  queen, 
Death  has  not  a  pang  to  daunt  me,  not  a  terror  that  can  haunt 

me; 
What  thou  sendest  to  me,  Mary,  I  can  meet  with  smiling  mien. 

Call  me  not  an  impious  traitor  !  he  who  loves  so  well  as  I 

Hell  nor  heaven  could  make   disloyal,  though  his  madness  make 

him  die. 
Heaven  preserve  thee  when  I  perish  other  friends  that  are  as 

true  ; 
Traitors'  gilded  snares  may    find   thee,  and  their  cunning  toils 

may  bind  thee, 
Then  may  love  like  mine,  0  Mary,  live  to  show  its  truth  to  you. 


QUEEN  MARY'S  LOVER.  39 


Thou  hast  saved  thine  honor,  Mary  ;  thou  hast  kept  thy  stainless 

name  ; 

Be  my  loyal  blood  the  voucher  for  thy  spotlessness  of  fame  ; 
But  its  worth  will  be  diminished  by  the  price  which  thou  hast 

given, 

And  thy  secret  heart  rebelling,  to  thy  soul  will  ere  be  telling 
That  thy  truest  lover  waits  thee  on  the  confines  of  his  heaven. 

Was  I  a  traitor,  0  blest  Mary,  when  I  saw  thee  kneeling  there 
In  thy  chamber's  holy  silence,  sending  up  thy  evening  prayer  ? 
Not  the  holy  Virgin  Mother  could  more  pure  or  glorious  seem  ; 
And  when  from  thy  lips  ascending,  my  name  with  thy  God's  was 

blending — 
Mary,  Mary,  as  immortal  as  my  soul  will  be  that  dream ! 

Did  I  wrong  her  whom  I  worshiped,  was  her  beauty  made  profane  ? 
Let  my  life-blood  pay  the  penance,  and  remove  the  blushing  stain; 
Still  the  daring  sin  committed  which  the  queen  can  not  forgive, 
In  thy  woman's  soul  repenting,  finds  a  generous  relenting, 
Which  while  it  would  slay  the  subject,  would  still  bid  the  lover 
live. 

God  protect  thee,  beauteous   princess,  when  the  faithful  are  no 

more, 

God's  guiding  angels  pilot  thee  to  Time's  eternal  shore  ; 
Though  thy  subject,  Mary,  fears  not  death,  his  heart  doth  sorely 

bleed, 
For  the  future  opes  before  him,  and  the  prophet's  vail  falls  o'er 

him, 
And  he  sees  for  thee,  sweet,  hapless  queen,  a  "  time  and  hour  of 

need." 

The  sullen  bell  is  tolling  that  calls  me  to  my  doom ; 

Another  morning's  sun  will  shine  upon  thy  lover's  tomb ; 

I  see  thee  at  thy  casement  high,  thy  face  bedewed  with  tears — 

0  f are  -  thee- w  til,  my  soul's  bright  queen,  this   sight  divine  that  I 

have  seen, 
Of  Mary  weeping  at  my  death,  is  worth  a  life  of  years ! 


40  A    REVERIE. 


A  REVERIE. 

NOT  from  fancy's  land  of  wonders 

Come  the  dreams  that  haunt  my  brain, 
But  from  out  the  past's  dim  chambers 

Glide  anon  the  shadowy  train. 
On  each  pale  and  solemn  visage 

Is  some  old  remembrance  prest, 
Some  old  memory  that  hath  lingered 

Ever  fadeless  in  my  breast. 

And  as  troop  on  troop  of  visions 

Through  thought's  silent  halls  defile, 
Like  the  ancient  ghosts  that  wander 

Through  some  lone  cathedral  aisle. 
New-born  fancies  mix  and  mingle 

With  the  old  familiar  throng, 
And  the  Past  and  Present  meeting, 

Form  the  river-tide  of  song. 

Dreams  of  present  have  no  power, 

And  no  grandeur  like  the  past ; 
Glory  borrows  its  enchantment 

From  the  distance  it  is  cast ; 
But  the  present  is  the  wizard 

That  can  break  oblivion's  seal, 
And  the  "  dead  past's  dead"  unburied, 

By  a  magic  word  reveal. 

Life  has  many  hidden  currents, 

Like  the  cave- streams  of  the  earth, 
Flowing  deep  and  strong  in  secret, 

Ne'er  betraying  bourne  or  birth  ; 
But  the  flood  in  darkness  wandering 

With  no  flower  upon  its  way, 
Has  its  course  'mong  richer  treasures 

Than  have  met  the  blaze  of  day. 


A    REVERIE.  41 


Light  that  sometimes  shines  upon  it 

Finds  it  deep,  and  pure,  and  cold  ; 
And  the  starry  gleam  reflected, 

Leaves  no  bosom  secret  told. 
In  my  spirit's  depths  are  hidden 

Treasures  gathered  from  all  life  : 
Pearls  of  thought,  and  gold  of  feeling, 

Moveless  with  the  current's  strife. 

In  life's  lively  panorama, 

Looking  for  what  is  to  be, 
We  forget  to  note  the  present 

Ere  the  changing  phantoms  flee ; 
But  as  clouds  by  tempests  driven 

Scatter  rain-drops  as  they  fly, 
Many  golden  sands  have  fallen 

Where  they  must  forever  lie. 

In  my  heart  the  silver  treble 

Of  these  broken  notes  of  song, 
Makes  no  discord  in  the  music 

As  it  flows  in  waves  along ; 
For  the  spirit  of  my  dreaming 

Sings  me  all  the  missing  notes, 
And  the  strain  to  you  so  broken 

Perfect  to  my  hearing  floats. 


42  THE  POET'S  HARP   OF  SORROWS, 


THE  POET'S  HARP  OF  SORROWS. 

THOU  hast  been  silent  long,  harp  of  my  sorrows, 
I  had  thought  ne'er  to  touch  thy  chords  again  ! 

But  grief  closed  in  the  heart  such  sternness  borrows, 
It  is  relief  to  waken  thy  complain  ; 

And  I  have  yearned  to  lay  my  heart  on  thee, 

And  let  its  throbbings  wake  a  symphony. 

I  have  a  vision  in  my  heart — 

A  vision  of  years  long  gone  by — 
And  from  almost  oblivion  start 

A  thousand  links  of  memory. 
I  see  a  dimly  smiling  band 

Far  back  upon  the  stream  of  time  ; 
And  friendship's  wreath  from  hand  to  hand 

Links  sunniest  flowers  of  sunny  clime. 

I  see  them  faintly  though  so  near ; 

I  gaze  into  their  smiling  eyes  ; 
And  from  their  soft  warm  lips  I  hear 

The  gushing  of  old  melodies. 
But  they  are  passing;  as  I  gaze 

The  light  fades  from  each  smiling  brow ; 
Unlike  that  dream  of  by-gone  days, 

A  specter-band  glides  by  me  now. 

My  eyes  are  dim  with  unshed  tears 

That  burn  like  fire,  but  will  not  flow ; 
My  vision  hath  recalled  the  years, 

The  light- winged,  bright-hued  long  ago. 
I  hear  the  caroling  of  birds, 

And  murmur  of  a  gurgling  stream, 
A  low  sweet  laugh,  and  pleasant  words, 

And  eyes  long  closed  with  brilliance  beam. 


THE    POET7S    HARP    OF    SORROWS. 


43 


I  seem  to  feel  the  fragrant  breath 

From  bright,  sweet  lips,  now  pale  and  cold  ; 
And  forms  come  from  the  land  of  death 

To  cluster  round  me  as  of  old. 
And  one  most  fair  of  that  fair  band 

Smiles  in  my  face  with  her  pure  eyes, 
And  the  warm  touch  of  her  soft  hand 

Thrills  me  with  long-gone  ecstasies. 

Art  thou  too  fled  ?     In  my  embrace 

I  clasp  naught  but  the  viewless  air  ; 
[  gaze  not  in  thy  smiling  face, 

0  where  art  thou,  my  sweet  bride,  where  ? 
Dost  call  me  with  thy  gentle  tone  ? 

And  yet  I  can  not  follow  thee ! 
I  see  thee  not — I  am  alone ; 

0  come  again,  sweet  bride,  to  me. 

0  wail,  my  harp     it  was  a  dream — 
A  sweet  deception,  blessing  me, 

And  passing  as  a  cloud-rent  beam 

Of  sun  upon  a  troubled  sea. 
Thy  trembling  chords  may  sadly  shake, 

My  heart-strings  quiver  like  thine  own, 
And  by  their  tension  soon  must  break, 

Then  breathe  for  me  thy  pensive  moan. 

Not  yet,  not  yet ;  0  cease  not  yet, 

Though  sad  the  "  burden  of  thy  song ;" 

The  restless  spirit  soon  will  set 

That  hath  disturbed  thy  chords  so  long. 

What  strains  !     0  never  had  thy  strings 
So  much  of  ravishment  as  this  ; 

1  hear  the  rustling  swoop  of  wings — 

My  bride !     0  Death,  thou  comest  in  bliss  ! 


44  DARKNESS. 


DARKNESS. 

I  SIT  in  the  darkness  all  alone. 

And  list  to  the  night-wind's  whispered  moan, 

That  is  not  as  sad  as  my  spirit's  tone, 

Nor  any  thing  else  can  be  ; 
For  in  this  starless,  moonless  night, 
With  not  a  ray  save  the  spirit's  light, 
I  am  musing  o'er  leaves,  some  sad,  some  bright, 

In  the  book  of  memory. 

A  thousand  dim  forms  around  me  glide, 

And  circle  me  in  on  every  side, 

And  their  presence  urges  the  burning  tide 

Of  thought  upon  my  soul. 
A  fever  is  scorching  heart  and  brain, 
And  burning  in  every  throbbing  vein, 
And  sudden  thrills  of  a  wild,  fierce  pain 

Are  mocking  all  control. 

It  is  but  my  troubled  dream,  I  know ; 
But  the  very  darkness  seems  to  glow, 
And  the  stars  to  wander  to  and  fro, 
With  a  red  and  fiery  gleam. 

0  for  a  ray  of  the  blessed  light, 

To  break  the  gloom  of  this  fearful  night, 
And  banish  this  vision  from  my  sight, 
And  waken  me  from  my  dream. 

1  did  not  think,  when  I  sat  me  here, 

That  the  night  would  seem  so  dark  and  drear, 
Or  the  air  so  full  of  forms  of  fear  ; 

But  I  wished  to  sit  and  think, 
In  the  breathless  stillness  of  the  night, 
Of  a  lofty  being,  pure  and  bright, 
Who  had  taught  my  spirit  of  the  might 

Of  his  own  soul  to  drink. 


BEAUTY. 


45 


And  I  dared  to  think  that  there  might  be 

In  the  future's  unseen  treasury 

A  long- craved  boon  reserved  for  me, 

The  blessed  boon  of  love ! 
But  the  past  came  up  before  mine  eyes, 
And  I  saw  in  dim  succession  rise 
A  thousand  older  memories, 

Each  one  with  sadness  wove. 

And  a  shadow  o'er  my  spirit  come, 
And  darker  grew  the  midnight  gloom, 
And  wilder,  busier  grew  the  hum 

Of  voices  from  the  past ; 
Till  I  yielded  up  my  hope  in  fear, 
And  shuddered  in  the  darkness  drear, 
Too  wildly  sad  to  weep  a  tear — 

To  hope  it  might  not  last. 

And  still  I  sat  when  hope  was  dead. 
And  did  not  dare  to  raise  my  head, 
For  fear  the  vision  was  not  fled, 

Until  a  single  star 

Burst  from  the  night-clouds'  gloomy  maze, 
And  broke  on  my  bewildered  gaze 
In  one  intense  and  glorious  blaze, 

And  darkness  fled  afar. 


BEAUTY. 

I  HAVE  seen  a  gay,  young,  vo'atile  creature, 
With  a  form  graceful  as  Hebe's,  and  a  smile 

Full  of  all  winning  witcheries  ;  and  features 
Blended  to  such  pure  symmetry,  that  while 

You  strove  to  tell  where  most  of  beauty  laid, 

The  delicate  whole  mingled  in  one  soft  shade, 
With  violet  eyes,  and  drooping  lids  that  looked 


40 


BEAUTY. 


Like  a  soft  pearl- cloud  on  the  summer  sky, 

And  fair,  smooth  brow  where  purity  seemed  booked 

Never  to  be  erased  ;  and  lips  that  vie 

With  the  young  rosebud,  that  ever  and  anon 
Parted  with  smiles  and  snatches  of  sweet  sono-  • 

O    ' 

And  hair  bright  as  a  gold-edged  cloud,  that  hung 

In  rippled  ringlets  round  the  soft,  white  neck, 
And  o'er  the  carmine  of  the  young  cheek  flung 

A  richer  glow,  such  as  tints  from  shadows  take. 
A  form  all  symmetry,  with  delicate  feet, 

And  pretty  dimpled  hands  and  rounded  arms, 
And  motions  full  of  graces,  such  as  meet 

To  make  perfection  in  one  lovely  form ; 
And  I  did  love  her  that  she  was  to  me 
The  witching  embodiment  of  poetry. 

And  I  knew  one  of  a  less  lovely  face, 

With  form  less  fairy-like  and  beautiful, 
With  motions  not  so  full  of  perfect  grace, 

But  whose  chief  charm  was  loveliness  of  soul  ! 
Yet  she  was  beautiful  ;  you  should  have  seen 

The  soft  eye  lighten,  and  the  restless  lip, 
Tremulous  with  lofty  sentiment,  and  been 

A  listener  to  the  glowing  thoughts  that  leap 
From  the  deep-welling  fountains  of  her  heart, 
And  watched  the  play  of  feelings  as  they'd  start, 

Bringing  the  eloquent  blood  to  her  fair  brow, 
Deepening  the  color  in  her  tell-tale  eye, 

And  blending  her  whole  being  in  the  glow 
That  wraps  her  spirit  in  such  ecstasy. 

Then  had  you  known  what  'tis  to  feel  the  charm 
Of  all  that's  beautiful  in  our  fair  earth  ; 

For  her  mind  fed  on  loveliness,  nor  form, 
Real  noi  spiritual,  that  has  its  birth, 

But  was  familiar  to  her  delicate  eye, 
Until  her  spirit  became  poetry  ! 

And  her  I  loved  for  beauty  that  is  given 

To  make  us  less  of  earth  and  more  of  heaven. 


ONE    OF    OUR    POETS. 


47 


ONE  OF  OUR  POETS. 

OFT  my  fancy  draws  the  picture,  and  for  evermore  lie  seems 
Sitting  silent  in  his  chamber,  brooding  o'er  his  wondrous  dreams; 
Sitting  motionless  and  weaving  visions  in  his  mighty  brain — 
Visions  soft,  and  pure,  and  glowing,  and  with  scarce  an  earthly 

stain — 
Weaving  into  them  his  being,  all  its  pleasures  and  its  pain. 

Coyly  through  the  open  casement  steals  the  fragrant  air  of  June, 
Humming  to  itself  the  murmur  of  the  woodland's  pleasant  tune ; 
Lifting  up  the  silken  curtain,  through  which  comes  the  ruby  tinge 
Glowing  in  the  chamber's  twilight,  toying  with  the  golden  fringe, 
Prisoning  the  window-roses  in  its  tassel-tano-led  swinge. 

o  o  o 

Fitful  gleams  of  yellow  sunlight  flash  across  the  velvet  floor, 
As  the  breeze  in  rising  gladness  lifts  the  curtain  more  and  more, 
And  a  smile  seems  stealing  over  the  dim  faces  in  the  room, 
'Till  the  pictured  wall  looks  breathing  through  the  soft  and  dreamy 

gloom, 
Antique  jewels  seem  to  sparkle,  and  to  wave  the  bending  plume. 

Nothing  cares  the  silent  dreamer  that  those  pictures,  old  and  dim, 
Give  more  sense  of  life  and  motion  to  the  gazer's  eye  than  him; 
Little  heeds  he  sun  or  shadow,  pleasant  sounds  or  fragrant  air  ; 
He  is  in  a  world  whose  visions  are  a  thousand  times  more  fair, 
Musing,  speechless   with  enchantment,  on   the  glorious   beauties 
there. 


More  and  more  the  curtain  flutters,  and  upon  the  dreamer's  hair 
Falls  the  crimson  glow  of  sunset,  resting  in  a  halo  there; 
On  a  brow  so  proud  and  pensive  fitly  placed  the  glory  seems — 
Looking  like  the  lingering  radiance  borrowed  in  his  land  of  dreams, 
Broken,  as  the  curtain  flutters,  into  bright  and  changing  gleams. 


48  A    DUET. 


But  anon  the  sun  is  setting,  and  the  breeze  has  died  away, 
And  the  curtain  and  the  sunbeam  cease  to  quiver  and  to  play, 
And  the  spell  so  deeply  woven  round  the  dreamer  seems  to  part, 
Till  the  tide  of  life  comes  rushing  faster  from  his  fettered  heart, 
And  his  own  unconscious  murmurs  wake  him  with  a  sudden  start. 

Hard  upon  his  fevered  eyelids  presses  he  his  trembling  hand, 
While  a  troop  of  white- winged  visions  vanish  at  his  sad  command; 
Still  he  murmurs  lightly  to  them,  whispers  to  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
As  he  paces,  in  the  twilight,  noiselessly  the  chamber  floor, 
Murmuring  ever,  like  a  river,  one  same  sound,  and  that  Lenore  ! 

Talking  to  his  love  in  heaven,  she  who  never  leaves  his  side, 
Hovering  near,  a  winged  spirit,  still  his  angel  and  his  bride ; 
Counting  ceaselessly  the  hoarded  treasures  of  his  memory's  store ; 
Burning  out  liis  heart  in  incense  at  the  shrine  he  loved  of  yore, 
Haunted  by  the  "  rare  and  radiant"  maiden  of  his  heart,  Lenore. 


A  DUET. 

c 
MIRIAM    BY    FRANCES    A.,    AND    SYDIL    BY    METTA    V.    FULLER. 

"THERE'S  a  strange  glow  upon  thy  cheek  to-day, 

And  an  unnatural  luster  in  thine  eye ; 
And  often  o'er  thy  red  lip's  restless  play, 

The  mournful  tones  steal  forth  and  quivering  die. 
Miriam,  thy  glance  doth  startle  me  as  strange, 

There  is  such  deep  intenseness  in  its  gaze  ; 
Surely  thy  heart  hath  felt  some  sudden  change — 

Some  heavy  sorrow  on  thy  spirit  lays." 


A    DUET. 


49 


"  Nay,  mark  not  that  the  varying  tide  of  thought 

Hath  taken,  for  once,  more  than  its  usual  glow 
Of  ever-burning  sadness  :  it  is  naught ; 

Then  do  not  pain  thy  breast  with  thoughts  of  woe. 
True,  my  cheek  burns,  but  with  mere  earnestness, 

The  force  of  feelings  in  my  heart  untold — 
Thoughts  which  I  cherish  not,  nor  can  repress, 

Not  of  wild  sorrow,  nor  yet  calmly  cold." 

"  Ah,  sister  !  is  this  all  ?     Thou  canst  not  hide 

The  secret  sadness  wearing  life  away ; 
The  bitterness  that  in  thy  heart  doth  hide, 

Dwelling  in  its  still  depths  by  night  and  day. 
I  tell  thee  I  have  heard  thee  in  thy  sleep 

Murmuring  strange,  mournful  words,  that  ever  seem 
So  low  and  yet  so  wild,  they  make  me  weep 

To  think  thy  heart  is  breaking  in  thy  dream." 

"  Do  I  then  murmur  in  my  sleep  to  thee, 

Betraying  the  sad  fancies  in  my  brain  ? 
'  Sleep  hath  its  own  world' — reality 

Thou  shouldst  not  link  with  its  unreal  pain. 
Sybil,  dear  sister,  lay  thy  cheek  to  mine — 
Talking  of  grief  has  even  made  me  sad  ; 
Whisper  of  love — no  other  love  but  thine! 

And  talk  to  me  as  though  you  deemed  me  glad." 

"  Ah,  my  own  Miriam  !  has  no  other  love 

No  whisper — no  unutterable  thrill — 
Has  thy  warm  heart,  o'er-freighted  like  the  dove, 

With  riches  of  affection,  now  grown  still  ? 
Surely  the  past,  the  bright,  the  lovely  past, 

Hath  dreamy  tales  of  love,  and  life,  and  bliss ; 
You  do  not  deem  such  joys  too  bright  to  last — 

Think  of  those  hours  and  they  will  brighten  this." 

"  Talk  not  of  love  !  there's  that  within  my  heart 
Whereon  it  falls  as  living  fire  would  fall 
5 


50  A    DUET. 


Upon  an  unclosed  wound ;  and  memories  start 
Fearful  as  specters  from  beneath  the  pall 

Of  the  unburied  dead !  no  more,  no  more ! 
Never  say  aught  again  to  me  of  bliss, 

Since  it  is  coupled  with  the  empty  lore 

Of  earth's  vain  love — away,  away  with  this." 

"  0  Miriam,  hush  !  it  frightens  me  to  mark 

The  chilling  sternness  of  thy  tone  and  look : 
Thine  eye  hath  grown  so  clear,  and  bright,  and  dark, 

Its  thrilling  glance  mine  own  can  hardly  brook. 
Speak  not  thus,  sister;  Sybil's  love  is  true, 

And  there  are  others  of  strong  faith,  and  sure  ; 
For  'mid  the  false  of  earth,  a  very  few 

Still  keep  their  trust  holy,  and  high,  and  pure." 

"  There  may  be  yet  a  few,  and  may  it  be 

Thy  blessed  fate  to  meet  them  in  thy  life ; 
But  /  reck  not  for  any,  for  to  me 

All  life  is  weariness — all  passion  strife. 
Yet  place  thy  hand  upon  my  heart  and  feel 

How  wildly  rushes  life's  impatient  tide ; 
But  let  it  chafe !  it  has  no  power  to  steal 

The  strength  away  of  a  yet  mightier  pride. 

"Sybil,  thy  years  are  few,  and  mine  are  so, 

Yet  have  I  learned  what  yet  you  have  not  known, 
And  I  pray  God  that  you  may  never  know ; 

But  thou  didst  catch  the  low,  half-smothered  moan, 
Breathed  by  a  spirit  weary  of  its  chains — 

Pining  in  bondage  of  a  scornful  will, 
That  will  not  listen  to  its  sad  complains, 

But  sternly  chides,  and  bids  its  voice  be  still." 

"  0  Miriam,  Miriam  !  has  the  withering  blight 

Of  some  chill  frost  fell  on  thy  heart's  sweet  flowers, 
Freezing  the  dew-drop  that  so  pure  and  bright 
Nurtured  their  bloom  in  thy  life's  sunny  hours  ? 


A    DUET. 


51 


Has  some  false  hand  dared  thy  rich  hopes  to  crush, 
And  made  the  sunlight  of  thy  dreaming  dim  ? 

Then  every  sob  of  grief  and  sorrow  hush — 
Sybil  could  feel  but  scorn  for  such  as  him." 


Ay,  scorn  for  him — but  would  this  make  thee  love 

Thy  blighted  life  the   more,  that  thy  proud  heart 
Found  refuge  in  disdain  ?     It  would  but  prove 

How  deep  the  wound,  how  fell  the  laden  dart. 
But  no,  I  mourn  not  for  the  love  of  one, 

But  for  the  shadows  of  distrust  that  cling 
To  every  show  of  virtue,  till  the  sun 

Of  life's  sweet  hope  is  darkened  by  its  wing." 

"  But  is  it  just  or  generous  thus  to  think 

The  world  is  naught  but  frailty  and  deceit, 
Because  one  hand  hath  rudely  broke  the  link 

That  bound  thy  love  to  him  in  fetters  sweet  ? 
My  gentle  sister,  thou  should  be  too  true 

To  let  distrust  darken  thy  sunny  way ; 
For  still  some  hand  around  thy  feet  will  strew 

Such  flowers  of  love  as  fade  not  in  a  day." 

"  'Tis  well  thou  thinkest  gently  of  the  world, 

But  talk  no  more  of  its  weak  faif.h  to  me ; 
My  heart's  sweet  dream  is  broken — ever  furled 

My  spirit's  drooping  pinion ;  and  to  be 
A  skeptic  of  earth's  earnestness  and  truth 

Even  hath  a  bitter  pleasure;  though  so  stern 
It  seems  to  thee  that  the  full  heart  of  youth 

Hath  laid  its  treasures  in  love's  crumbling  urn." 

"  Miriam,  my  sister,  bitterly  I  grieve 

That  thou  shouldst  throw  life's  purest  gems  aside, 
And  smile  in  very  mockery  to  give 

Their  richness  at  the  shrine  of  chilling  pride. 


52  THE    MIDNIGHT    BANNER. 


0  it  is  better  that  our  faith  and  love 

A  thousand  times  were  trampled  in  the  dust, 

Than  with  such  calm,  cold,  throbless  hearts  to  move 
Through  the  fair  earth  alone— no  hope — no  trust." 


THE  MIDNIGHT  BANNER, 

ONCE  upon  a  night  of  sorrow, 
Sat  I  waiting  for  the  morrow, 
With  my  hand  upon  my  forehead, 

And  a  grief  upon  my  heart ; 
One  I  loved  had  rashly  spoken 
Words  by  which  our  hearts  are  broken- 
Fatal  words,  of  bitter  meaning, 

Such  as  force  our  souls  apart ; 
And  I  sat  in  tearless  sorrow 

Till  the  midnight  should  depart. 

Then,  to  cool  the  fever  burning 
Like  a  flame  my  forehead,  turning 
To  the  closely-curtained  window, 

I  had  drawn  the  folds  aside  ; 
When  I  saw,  all  bathed  in  moonlight, 
Floating  in  the  face  of  midnight, 
Like  a  robed  and  winged  spirit, 

A  dark  banner,  long  and  wide, 
Streaming  out  upon  the  night- wind 

In  its  lone  and  solemn  pride. 

With  a  motion  slow  and  oven, 
Up  against  the  starry  heaven, 
Floated  that  mysterious  banner  ; 
Like  a  proud  and  mournful  soul, 


THE    MIDNIGHT    BANNER. 


53 


Brooding  o'er  a  sorrow  hidden 
In  a  heart-cell,  which,  unbidden, 
Human  eye  may  ne'er  discover — 

Human  love  may  not  console; 
Sadly  and  in  silence  mourning 

Fate  which  nothing  can  control. 

Like  a  disembodied  spirit, 

The  wan  moon  was  hovering  near  it, 

With  a  face  all  dim  and  pallid, 

Just  above  the  banner's  height ; 
While  it  kept  its  murmuring  motion, 
Like  a  wave  upon  the  ocean, 
Or  a  sigh  within  a  bosom 

Struggling  back  from  human  sight ; 
Heedless  of  the  spirit  shedding 

Round  it  her  caressing  light. 

Long  I  gazed,  almost  forgetting 
My  own  grieving  and  regretting, 
On  that  dark,  mysterious  banner, 

Floating  on  the  midnight  wind ; 
And  I  borrowed  from  its  seeming 
Thoughts  in  that  strange  hour  of  dreaming, 
That  have  left  undying  tokens 

Of  themselves  upon  my  mind  ; 
And  my  spirit  gathered  from  them 

Knowledge  holy  and  refined. 

All  the  wildness  of  my  madness 
Altered  to  a  calmer  sadness — 
Under  that  dim  banner  marshaled, 

Memory  viewed  her  countless  host ; 
And  my  soul  looked  on  confessing, 
With  a  murmured  prayer  and  blessing, 
Each  endearing  reminiscence 

In  the  tide  of  passion  lost ; 
And  a  thrill  of  hope  and  gladness 

My  tumultuous  bosom  crossed. 


54  THE    COUNTRY    ROAD. 


Then  the  banner,  like  my  spirit, 
Ceased  to  waver,  and  more  near  it 
Rode  the  pale  moon,  slow  descending 

To  the  chambers  of  the  west ; 
And  then  for  one  blissful  minute, 
The  dark  banner  held  within  it 
The  pale  spirit's  lovely  vision, 

Like  a  face  within  a  breast ; 
And  I  knew  by  that  sweet  omen 

I  should  be  forgiven  and  blessed. 


THE  COUNTRY  ROAD. 

I  LOVE  to  muse  along  the  tracery 
Of  a  provincial  road.     The  gaudy  town, 
With  its  full  streets,  its  busy,  care-browed  throng, 
May  furnish  food,  ay,  ample  food  for  thought ; 
But  such  reflections  as  come  o'er  us  there 
Are  feverish  and  unhealthy.     But  to  me 
There  is  sweet  company  in  the  old  trees 
That  fling  their  shadows  o'er  the  sunny  way ; 
Whose  murmur  of  innumerable  leaves, 
Broken  by  bursts  of  joyous  harmony, 
From  the  gay,  bright-plumed  choir,  or  by  the  quick, 
Low,  musical  chattering  of  the  small, 
And  many  habitants  of  the  old  wood — 
To  find  a  flower,  that  half-concealed  by  leaves, 
Had  bloomed  unseen  (so  many  flowers  of  life 
Are  passed  unheeded  by,  and  careless  feet 
Trample  them  in  the  dust) ;  all  these  have  tongues, 
That  murmur  in  soft  discourse  to  the  heart. 
The  very  shadows  on  the  dusty  way, 
Changeful  and  restless,  mock  the  swinging  boughs 


THE    COUNTRY    ROAD. 


55 


That  suit  their  motion  to  the  fitful  breeze, 
And  whisper  music  to  the  dream-bound  soul. 
But  most  of  all,  I  love  to  notice  where 
The  feet  of  other  wayfarers  have  fallen. 
Such  is  the  willingness  with  which  we  look 
Into  the  hearts  of  others,  to  find  out 
The  secret  of  their  misery  or  bliss  ; 
That  as  I  gaze  upon  the  brief  impress 
Of  feet  whose  owners  I  have  never  known, 
A  shadow  of  their  character  will  cross 
The  vision  of  my  fancy  like  a  truth. 
Deep  in  the  dust,  and  almost  half  erased, 
I  see  the  traces  of  a  ponderous  shoe ; 
The  wearer  hath  trod  heavily  ;  perhaps 
Burdened  with  care,  as  wearied  with  the  toil 
Of  tedious  miles  ;  for  when  the  heart  beats  low 
The  blood  flows  but  reluctantly,  and  life 
Performs  its  functions  wearily,  with  care. 
But  here,  and  here,  a  little  unshod  foot 
Hath  pressed  but  lightly,  as  with  smiling  eyes 
And  bounding  heart  its  infant  owner  tripped 
Laughing    along,    perchance  to  school  and  books- 
May  be  to  gather  flowers  for  good  grandma — 
Or  yet  to  roam  in  search  of  winter  stores 
Of  brown,  delicious  nuts. 

And  here's  a  print 

Of  a  small  slippered  foot,  and  just  beside 
A  larger  and  a  heavier  impress. 
And  now  the  mind  with  fancy's  pencil  draws 
A  picture  of  a  pair,  a  beautiful  pair, 
Of  young  and  love-eyed  beings,  who,  with  lips 
Lovely  and  eloquent,  breathe  impassioned  dreams, 
Fashioned  in  hearts  filled  with  the  loveliest 
And  gentlest  thoughts,  and  told  in  whispered  words 
Inspired  by  scenes  as  full  of  love  as  is 
The  countenance  of  Nature.     They  have  talked, 
Confiding  in  each  other,  till  the  chain 
Of  subtlest  sympathy  that  binds  our  hearts 


56  SONG    OF    THE    EAGLE. 


Hath  linked  theirs  in  blest  unison,  and  made 

Life  seem  a  fairy-land  of  light  and  love. 

But  they  are  gone  !     I  now  no  longer  see 

The  tracery  of  their  footsteps ;  but  I  go 

Still  dreaming  on ;  and  I  will  have  a  world 

Of  beautiful  images  ;  and  some,  perhaps, 

Sad,  sad  ones,  too;  but  these  will  make  the  heart 

More  grateful  for  its  joys,  and  give  a  shade 

To  the  too  brilliant  coloring  of  its  dreams. 


SONG  OF  THE  EAGLE. 

I'M  the  child  of  light,  yet  the  darkest  night 

No  terrors  hath  for  me, 
For  the  storm  I  ride,  in  a  monarch's  pride, 

Or  skim  o'er  the  heaving  sea. 

G 

When  lowering  clouds,  like  sable  shrouds, 
Wrap  the  earth  in  deepest  gloom, 

I  join  the  surge  in  the  funeral  dirge, 
O'er  the  sailor's  watery  tomb. 

And  I  love  to  rest  on  the  summit  crest 

Of  the  proudest  mountain's  height, 
While  the  clouds  below  lie  like  wreaths  of  snow, 

Yielding  homage  to  my  might. 
In  my  pride  I  go  where  eternal  snow 

Has  crested  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  laugh  at  the  storm,  and  the  blackened  form 

Of  the  threatening  clouds  below. 

Mid  the  lightning's  flash,  and  the  thunder's  crash, 

I  scream  for  my  own  delight, 
For  I  love  to  hear,  so  loud  and  clear, 

My  voice  ringing  out  in  the  night. 


AUTUMN. 


57 


Not  so  proud  a  one  ever  gazed  on  the  sun 

As  the  eagle  bird,  I  trow, 
Stooping  to  rest  on  the  towering  crest 

Of  the  highest  mountain's  brow. 

In  the  pride  of  a  king,  with  folded  wing, 

I  gaze  on  ruined  Tyre  ; 
By  Heaven's  decree  it  was  given  to  me, 

And  no  power  to  give  is  higher. 
From  land  or  sea  God  hath  chosen  me, 

And  a  favored  bird  am  I — 
The  gifted  of  Heaven,  to  whom  power  is  given 

Over  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky. 

I  care  not  for  earth,  though  I  had  my  birth 

On  the  proudest  height  she  owns  ; 
And  I'd  rather  ride  o'er  old  ocean's  tide 

Than  sit  on  her  rocky  thrones. 
But  I  love  the  sun,  and  could  I  have  won 

A  home  in  its  realms  of  light, 
With  a  laugh  of  scorn  from  this  earth  I'd  turn, 

And  soar  to  my  home  in  delight. 


AUTUMN. 

AUTUMN  breezes  now  are  blowing, 
Groves  with  rainbow  colors  glowing, 
Flowers  dim  and  faded  growing, 

Fading  with  the  year! 
Louder  sounds  the  rushing  river, 
More  the  forest  leaves  do  quiver, 
Through  the  boughs  the  wild  winds  shiver, 

With  a  voice  of  fear. 


58  AUTUMN. 


Wildly  sweet  is  its  low  moaning, 
Our  sad  hearts  with  rapture  toning, 
Every  chord  its  power  owning, 

Yielding  a  soft  thrill ; 
Clouds  across  the  sky  are  straying 
Leaves  in  whirling  eddies  playing, 
Birds  their  farewell  notes  essaying, 

Making  concert  shrill. 

Spirits  through  the  earth  are  gliding, 
In  the  forest  shadows  hiding, 
Mourning  for  the  short  abiding 

Of  earth's  witching  bloom  : 
Hear  them  when  the  daylight  endeth, 
When  the  dusky  eve  descendeth, 
And  her  sable  pinion  blendeth 

All  things  into  gloom. 

Heed  them  when  the  clouds  are  flying, 
In  low,  solemn  whispers  sighing, 
From  each  little  nook  replying, 

With  a  wail  of  fear  : 
List  them  where  the  insect  hummeth, 
Where  the  misty  sunlight  cometh, 
Where  the  tiny  cascade  foameth, 

Making  music  clear. 

Roam  by  wood,  or  field,  or  river, 
Everywhere  their  voices  quiver, 
With  a  sweet,  low  cadence  ever, 

Mourning  beauty's  doom  ! 
Silence  now  more  silent  seemeth, 
Each  bright  planet  brighter  beameth, 
And  the  young  moon  colder  gleameth 

Through  the  solemn  gloom. 

Now  do  I  go  forth  communing, 
My  wild  spirit  rapture  owning, 


THE    DYING    POET. 


59 


Thrilling  to  the  whispered  moaning 

Of  the  spirit  choir; 
Fountains  in  my  heart  upgushing, 
Dim  remembrance  o'er  me  rushing, 
Eye  and  cheek  most  brightly  flushing 

With  a  welcome  fire. 

Did  each  season  bring  such  gladness, 
Rapture  so  mixed  up  with  sadness, 
Soon  would  a  delicious  madness 

Steal  my  heart  away  : 
Every  leaf  with  crimson  gleaming, 
Is  with  pensive  fancies  teeming, 
Bringing  dim,  unconscious  dreaming, 

Bright  and  brief  as  they. 


THE  DYING  POET. 


HE  knew  that  he  was  dying ;  day  by  day 
He  felt  the  silver  chords  within  his  bosom 

Mysteriously  but  palpably  give  way, 

And  he  cared  not  that  death  so  soon  should  loose  them 

For  a  dull  grief  was  carking  in  his  breast, 

That  while  his  heart  beat  would  not  be  at  rest. 

There  had  been  flowers  in  his  course  at  morn, 
But  one  by  one  had  withered  on  his  way ; 

His  heart  was  heavy,  and  his  feet  were  torn, 
And  yet  no  close  came  to  his  weary  day  ; 

The  night  was  distant,  but  he  prayed  to  die 

Before  its  shadows  darkened  in  his  sky. 


60  THE    DYING    POET. 

Many  had  blessed  him  as  he  passed  them  by, 
And  hushed  their  hearts  to  listen  to  his  singing ; 

And  shouted  his  name  upward  to  the  sky — 
Roses  and  gems  upon  his  pathway  flinging ; 

But  fainting  he  had  turned  him  from  the  throng, 

Sighing  his  sorrow  to  himself  and  song. 

There  had  been  one  to  whom  his  heart  went  forth 
In  his  young  manhood — love's  free  gift,  unbidden  ; 

But  she  was  fair  and  frigid  as  the  north, 

And  the  warm  breathings  of  his  lyre  were  chidden : 

And  from  that  hour  it  took  an  altered  tone, 

Singing  to  Nature  and  itself  alone. 

But  now  his  course  was  ended  ;  and  his  gaze 
Watched  the  red  sunset  fading  from  the  sky — 

The  last  his  eyes  might  look  on  ;  while  a  maze 
Of  half-forgotten  memories  flitted  by ; 

A  breeze  came  from  the  sea  and  stirred  his  hair, 

And  fancy  felt  his  mother's  fingers  there. 

Deeper  the  crimson  of  the  sunset  grew  ; 

An  old  church-tower  that  loomed  against  the  west, 
Lifting  its  pinnacle  to  the  far  blue, 

Pictured  to  him  his  own  deserted  breast, 
That  rent  and  ruined,  let  the  sunset  in, 
Gilding  in  mockery  the  shapeless  scene. 

How  had  his  life  been  wasted  ;  he  had  spent 

His  youth,  his  manhood,  all  his  young  bright  years, 

In  giving  one  poor  passion  its  full  vent, 

And  it  rewarded  him  with  heart-wrung  tears, 

Till  the  slow  fever  sapped  his  veins  all  dry, 

Nor  blood  refreshed  his  heart,  nor  tears  his  eye. 

Then  like  an  old  man  with  a  century's  weight 
Bowing  him  to  the  dust,  he  laid  his  weary  head 


JUDAS'    REMORSE. 


61 


Upon  the  arm  of  death,  and  waiting  sat, 

Wishing  the  moments  of  probation  fled — 
Wishing  his  sun  of  life  would  fade  away, 
With  the  departing  brightness  of  the  day. 

And  thus  was  hushed  his  heart,  and  hushed  his  lyre ; 

Death  had  o'ercome  him  with  the  twilight's  shade ; 
The  altar  had  consumed  with  its  own  fire, 

And  perished  with  the  gift  upon  it  laid ; 
The  idol  was  an  idol  now  no  more — 
The  Poet's  love,  and  grief,  and  song  were  o'er. 


JUDAS'  REMORSE. 


PRIESTS  !  take  them  back,  those  thjrty  blood-stained  pieces  ! 

For  which  I  sold  what  worlds  can  not  redeem  ; 
With  every  pulse  my  fearful  sin  increases, 

And  my  brain  throbs  as  in  some  fevered  dream. 
"  See  thou  to  that !"  ay,  ye  do  well  to  taunt 

The  cursed  instrument  of  your  own  crime — 
Fiends  !  take  your  bribe — away  with  it,  avaunt ! 

Give  me  a  respite,  one  small  hour  of  time. 

I  will  go  forth  to  look  upon  the  earth, 

Upon  whose  face  I  am  so  foul  a  stain, 
And  will  return  no  more,  for  from  my  birth 

If  I  have  lived  for  this,  how  worse  than  vain ! 
Now  on  the  temple's  pinnacle  I  stand, 

And  my  eye  scans  the  motley  gaping  crowd, 
Whose  murderous  deed  shall  lay  this  fated  land, 

Accursed  and  blackened,  in  a  bloody  shroud. 
6 


62  JUDAS'  REMORSE. 

The  Master's  words — oh,  how  they  haunt  me  now  ! 

And  burn  like  coals  of  vengeance  on  my  heart ; 
And  the  word  "  traitor,"  branded  on  my  brow, 

From  which  I  never,  never  more  can  part ! 
Oh,  that  I  ne'er  had  seen  Him,  had  ne'er  heard 

Those  heavenly  accents  from  His  guileless  lips  ; 
Like  hissing  firebrands,  in  my  brain  each  word 

Quenches  itself,  and  of  my  life-blood  sips. 

I  knew,  I  knew  such  words  and  deeds  belonged 

But  to  the  Deity,  and  to  Him  alone ! 
But  powers  of  darkness  all  around  me  thronged 

And  longed  to  claim  me,  as  I  am,  their  own. 
Oh,  would  I  were  the  lowliest  thing  that  lives, 

Even  a  soulless,  a  just  breathing  thing  ! 
For  what  is  intellect,  that  to  us  gives 

Such  power  to  sin,  such  fearful  suffering  brings  ? 

I  dare  not  ask  for  pardon ;  He  hath  said 

Wo  to  the  traitor !  and  His  word  fails  not ; 
What  if  I  die?     When  He  shall  wake  the  dead, 

Then  shall  I  find  I  have  not  been  forgot. 
They  lead  Him  forth  !     Oh,  agonizing  sight ! 

On  His  meek  head  a  rugged  crown  of  thorns ; 
But  were  it  gold  His  brow  would  dim  its  light, 

Such  the  pure  majesty  these  wretches  scorn. 

The  royal  robe  in  mockery  He  wears ; 

They  spit  upon  Him,  and  they  hail  Him  king ! 
And  now,  0  God  !  His  heavy  cross  He  bears, 

Nor  breathes  one  word  for  all  His  suffering. 
Why  do  I  live — oh,  why  behold  this  scene, 

Whose  shade  will  haunt  me  through  eternity? 
Off,  coward  fears !  your  slave  too  long  I've  been, 

But  now  I  am  resolved,  and  I  will  die! 


THOUGHTS    OF    THEE. 


63 


THOUGHTS  OF  THEE. 

As  the  wild-bird,  when  the  spring-flower 

Cometh  back  once  more, 
Seeketh  the  same  greenwood  bower 

It  had  loved  before  ; 
So  my  memory  never  loseth 

Its  sad  dream  of  thee  ; 
But  my  heart  around  it  closeth, 

Fondly,  mournfully. 

It  doth  bide  with  me  forever, 

Waking  or  asleep — 
Murmuring  like  some  mournful  river, 

Low,  and  wild,  and  deep. 
Every  thing  that's  good  and  lovely, 

All  fair  things  I  see, 
Do  like  hidden  music  move  me, 

With  sad  dreams  of  thee. 

Summer  clouds  are  beautiful, 

And  sunny  spots  in  groves ; 
And  the  gushing  of  a  waterfall 

Hath  a  melting  voice  like  love's ; 
And  the  young  moon  hath  a  witchery 

No  tongue  hath  ever  told, 
As  she  looketh  down  in  purity, 

So  bright,  and  fair,  and  cold. 

But  my  heart  forgets  its  dreaminess, 

Its  once  so  frequent  thrill ; 
And  gazeth  upon  loveliness 

With  pulses  strangely  still. 
I  can  not  tear  myself  away, 

I  can  not  break  the  spell ; 
But  it  doth  strengthen  day  by  day, 

Repulse  it  as  I  will. 


64  THOUGHTS    OF    THEE. 

For  there  was  not  the  smallest  thing 

That  was  admired  by  thee, 
To  which  my  spirit  does  not  cling 

Watchfully,  tenderly. 
I  sit  beneath  the  evening  sky, 

And  look  upon  the  moon, 
And  the  fitful  breeze  comes  flutt'ring  by, 

With  a  low  and  hollow  tune ; 

And  I  see  our  beacon  star  come  up, 

And  rise  above  the  trees, 
And  the  dew  is  in  the  Iris'  cup, 

But  what  to  me  are  these  ? 
I  know  thou  wilt  not  come  again, 

As  was  thy  wont  of  old ; 
And  I  press  my  burning  brow  in  pain, 

And  wish  the  night  were  told : 

For  the  moonlight  teems  with  memory, 

And  the  stars  burn  on  my  sight ; 
And  every  thing  doth  talk  of  thee, 

In  the  stillness  of  the  night. 
In  dreams  I  sometimes  see  thy  face, 

But  nothing  kind  is  there  ; 
I  meet  thy  mute,  forgetful  gaze, 

With  still  but  deep  despair. 

The  sunlight  is  too  bright  for  me, 

And  pleasant  days  seem  long; 
Laughter  is  but  a  mockery, 

And  the  voice  of  happy  song. 
I  do  not  weep,  but  crush  my  heart, 

That  I  may  seem  to  be 
Unwounded  by  the  poison  dart 

That  was  prepared  for  me. 

My  spirit  walks  the  earth  apart, 
Weary  and  alone, 


THE    GRAVE    OF    L.    E.    L. 


And  not  a  chord  in  all  my  heart, 
But  hath  a  broken  tone. 

The  chords  that  once  so  wildly  rung 
To  mirth  and  melody, 

Are  silent  now,  or  only  strung 

To  mournful  thoughts  of  thee 


65 


THE  GRAVE  OF  L.  E.  L. 

"  NOT  where  the  wild  bee  hummeth 

About  the  mossed  headstone  ; 
And  at  midnight  the  moon  cometh 
And  iooketh  down  alone." 

THY  grave  is  not  befitting  one  like  thee, 

Sweet  but  impassioned  songstress  of  the  heart ; 
They  should  have  laid  thee  'neath  some  spreading  tree, 

From  all  but  wild-wood  melodies  apart. 
They  should  have  laid  thee  by  some  low-voiced  river, 

Whose  waves  would  keep  for  thee  a  soft  complain, 
Murmuring  with  plaintive,  dirge-like  voice,  forever 

To  thy  calm  rest  a  wild,  pathetic  strain. 

The  clang  of  armor  never  should  have  rung 

Above  the  mouldering  dust  of  one  like  thee ; 
Thou  couldst  not  love  the  trumpet's  brazen  tongue, 

Who  didst  find  life  such  bitter  mockery  ; 
And  it  was  mockery  to  lay  thee  there, 

Beneath  an  Eastern  pavement's  burning  glow, 
With  heavy  tread  of  soldiers  falling  where 

The  sacred  tear  of  memory  should  flow. 

Was  there  no  one  whose  delicate  sympathy 
Could  choose  for  thee  a  holier  place  of  rest, 

And  o'er  the  heart  once  rich  with  harmony, 

See  that  the  earth  and  the  young  wild -flowers  prest? 


66 


FOREBODING. 


We  may  now  chide  the  soldier's  iron  heel 
That  stamps  relentlessly  upon  thy  grave ; 

But  ah,  thy  living  heart  did  often  feel 

More  heavy  griefs  from  which  we  could  not  save. 

And  thou,  whose  theme  was  ever  passionate  love, 
Whose  lyre  e'er  sounded  with  a  sad  complain 

Of  unrequited  sympathies,  that  wove 

Thy  dearest  happiness  with  thy  deepest  pain, 

Art  sleeping  now  where  not  a  flower  may  spring, 

A  leaf  may  quiver,  or  a  wild  bird  sing. 


FOREBODING. 


MORE  and  more  by  daily  sorrow 
Is  the  bright  veil  drawn  aside, 

That  was  wont  the  sad  to-morrow 
From  the  fair  to-day  to  hide. 

More  and  more  with  wild  emotion 
Is  my  spirit  tossed  and  torn  ; 

While  upon  life's  troubled  ocean 
Fearful,  shadowy  shapes  are  borne. 

In  the  future's  dim  uncertain, 

Gathering  clouds  obscure  the  light, 

Hanging  like  a  sable  curtain 
Over  all  that  once  was  bright. 

Murmurs  in  my  soul  keep  sighing 
Like  the  tempest's  rising  tone, 

Into  solemn  silence  dying, 
With  a  low  bewailing  moan. 


FOREBODING. 


67 


Shall  this  scathing  tempest  find  me  ? 

Is  this  shadow  but  a  shade  ? 
Pain,  and  fear,  and  darkness  blind  me, 

And  my  spirit  shrinks  afraid. 

Backward  have  I  looked  imploring, 

But  the  sky  is  overcast ; 
And  the  clouds  of  doubt  are  lowering 

Even  oe'r  the  sunny  past. 

How  hath  sorrow  bruised  my  spirit, 
Clouded  all  my  hopes  and  dreams, 

Till  no  light  of  gladness  near  it 
Shines  upon  its  troubled  streams. 

Where  hath  fled  the  glorious  vision 
That  enchained  my  soul  so  long ; 

Points  it  now  in  stern  derision 
To  my  faded  flowers  of  song  ? 

Is  there  then  no  resurrection 
Of  the  spirit's  buried  strength  ? 

Penance  done,  and  sad  reflection, 
Will  restore  the  boon  at  length. 

Gloom  and  sorrow  I  will  banish, 
Tempests  shall  be  overcome  ; 

Phantom  fears  shall  all  evanish, 
Exiled  to  their  proper  tomb. 

If  my  spirit  faint  or  falter, 

Glorious  vision,  lend  thine  aid  ! 

Thou  shalt  shine  above  the  altar 
Where  my  hope  and  trust  are  laid. 


68  MY    LOVE. 


MY  LOVE. 

LOVE  thee  ?     I  must !  not  the  great  sea 

Ever  heaves  upward  to  the  moon 
As  my  soul  lifts  itself  to  thee, 

Drawn  by  the  magic  of  thine  own. 
My  heart  is  like  a  fountain  springing 

In  shadow  of  some  lonely  tree, 
Its  constant  streams  and  ceaseless  singing, 

Murmur  and  flow  alone  to  thee. 

I  would  I  did  not  love  thee  so, 

Lest  God  should  desolate  the  shrine, 
And  lay  the  glorious  image  low 

So  like  to  His,  so  like  to  thine ! 
And  could  I  deem  the  light  that  now 

Halos  h  y  being  would  depart, 
I  would  unsay  my  holy  vow, 

Though  it  in  breaking  broke  my  heart. 

But  thou,  thou  never  sure  canst  be 

Less  of  a  glory  than  this  hour, 
And  my  soul  rests  relyingly 

On  thine,  as  on  a  nobler  power. 
Day's  glorious  morn,  her  holy  eve, 

The  grand,  the  beautiful,  the  bright, 
Each  in  the  soul's  existence  weave 

New  thoughts  of  thee  like  rays  of  light. 

Such  love  as  this  will  burn  till  life 

Has  darkened  in  its  narrow  cell, 
And  calmly  'mid  the  world's  fierce  strife, 

As  sheltered  in  some  fairy  dell. 
I  only  ask  that  thou  wilt  be 

What  now  thou  art,  for  evermore, 
Peerless,  yet  brightening  constantly, 

As  soul  refining  leaves  its  ore. 


HEART-BREATHINGS. 


69 


HEART-BREATHINGS. 

AND  must  we  thus  bear  on,  thus  give  to  pride 
A  mastery  not  its  own ;  wear  a  bright  brow 
Wreathed  with  cold  smiles  that  come  not  from  the  heart, 
And  clothe  our  thoughts  in  language  of  the  mind, 
While  the  soul  lies  a  writhing,  moaning  thing, 
Beneath  this  calm  exterior  ?     Oh  !  must 
A  thousand  gushing  impulses  be  crushed, 
Ground  by  the  heel  of  pride,  that  lifts  its  brow 
With  a  false  garnish — as  the  ivy  gives 
Freshness  to  what  is  fallen  in  decay, 
While  the  heart  perishes  ? 
O  for  the  privilege  which  the  world  grants  not, 
To  be  but  what  we  are !     True,  there  may  pass 
Over  our  hearts  a  devastating  fire, 
A  scorching  blast  to  lay  them  desolate ; 
But  from  the  ashes  of  the  past  may  spring 
A  stronger  blossom,  with  a  deeper  glow, 
"Thau  tinged  its  earliest  flower." 

The  glancing  streams, 

That  play  through  all  our  hearts  impulsively, 
May  find  a  deep,  broad  channel,  where  their  flow, 
Thenceforward  will  be  silent,  low,  and  strong ; 
But  oh,  must  it  be  hidden  ?     Then  give  back 

The  storm  and  lightning — let  the  tempest  howl 

It  were  far  easier  than  this,  to  bear 
The  constant  wearing  of  the  heart  away ! 


70  THE    DEAD    LOVER. 


THE  DEAD  LOVER. 

Is  he  then  dead,  0  God  !  and  hath  he  perished 

In  all  his  brightness — stricken  back  to  dust ! 
The  high  imaginings — the  hopes  he  cherished — 

And  my  mad  love — alike  an  empty  trust  ? 
It  can  not,  can  not  be  ;  look  on  his  brow  ! 

The  light  of  intellect  is  resting  there ; 
And  the  calm  smile  upon  his  proud  lip  now, 

Hath  the  same  sweetness  it  was  wont  to  wear. 


Oft  have  I  gazed  upon  his  manly  face, 

And  felt  my  heart  throb  with  a  lofty  pride 
To  mark  the  same  expression  I  now  trace, 

Of  high,  pure  thoughtfulness ;  the  soul's  full  tide 
Of  still  but  mighty  feelings  shining  through 

Each  soul-illumined  feature  ;  would  not  Death, 
With  his  damp,  icy  touch,  and  blighting  dew, 

Efface  the  impress  with  his  first  cold  breath  ? 

Yet  say  they,  "  He  is  dead !"     I  may  now  dare 

To  lay  my  hand  upon  his  kingly  brow, 
And  smooth  the  masses  of  his  jetty  hair, 

Whose  glossy  curls  have  never  until  now 
Threaded  my  trembling  fingers  ;  strange  delight ! 

How  my  heart  burns  within  its  prisoning  cell  ! 
And  my  brain  reels,  till  all  around  is  night — 

Would  'twere  death's  silent  and  insidious  spell  ! 

The  brief  insensibility  is  past ; 

And  deeper  than  before  the  rankling  dart 
Pierces  its  barbed  point ;  oh,  shall  this  last, 

And  life  yet  linger  in  this  heaving  heart  ? 


THE  DEAD  LOVER. 


71 


Away,  away !  come  ye  to  tear  me  hence  ? 

If  in  his  life  I  dared  not  tell  my  love, 
Awed  into  silence  by  his  eloquence, 

Leave  me  alone  with  him,  that  I  may  prove 

By  my  wild  grief,  how  wild,  and  strong,  and  deep 

Was  the  revering  love  I  bore  for  him ; 
My  aching  eyes,  that  burn  too  much  to  weep, 

With  unshed  tears  must  be  forever  dim ; 
And  this  rent  heart,  torn  from  its  lofty  trust, 

Must,  sad  and  strengthless,  sink  again  to  earth, 
And,  like  its  idol,  mingle  with  the  dust, 

From  which  it  rose  in  its  mysterious  birth. 

0  for  a  single  tone  of  his  deep  voice, 
To  linger  ever  quivering  on  my  ear ! 

0  for  one  glance  of  those  dark,  earnest  eyes 

To  light  the  gloom  of  this  now  joyless  sphere  ! 
But  thou  art  still  and  silent — thou  art  dead  ! 

I  feel  what  death  is  now — voiceless  and  still ; 
When  the  bright  spirit  from  the  clay  is  fled — 

And  thou  art  thus — motionless,  voiceless,  chill ! 

And  we  were  to  be  wedded — I  thy  bride ; 

And  I  am  thine  still,  even  in  the  tomb ; 
Though  never  more  triumphant  by  thy  side, 

I  feel  to  my  hot  cheek  the  quick  blood  come. 

1  know  our  souls  are  wedded — but  to  see 
Thy  face  forever  hidden  from  my  sight 

Never  to  hear  thy  voice — oh,  agony ! 

Would  that  my  spirit,  too,  might  wing  its  flight. 


72  TO 


TO 


HAD  I  not  known  all  that  the  heart  can  tell 

Of  bliss  or  sorrow,  ere  thy  love  was  told, 
My  heart  had  broken  at  thy  last  farewell — 

Proud,  tender,  thrilling,  yet  that  seemed  so  cold. 
But  sad  regret  was  all  that  I  could  give — 

Regret,  that  all  that  might  have  been  my  own 
My  heart  rejected  loathingly,  to  live 

In  its  mute  passion,  grieving  and  alone  ; 
And  a  sharp  sorrow  for  the  pang  I  gave, 
Though  it  had  been  thy  "  double  death"  to  save. 

'Twas  no  new  tale  that  thy  lips  whispered  me ; 

It  is  the  curse  of  genius  thus  to  steal 
The  hearts  of  many  after  it,  yet  be 

Lonely  and  longing  ever  ;  and  to  feel 
That  though  'tis  love  we  want,  the  love  we  win 

Is  a  poor,  earthly  sense,  to  which  the  dream 
We  cherish  is  a  heavenly ;  and  the  sin 

Of  hollow-heartedness  is  made  to  seem 
Ours,  and  a  strange  ingratitude,  while  we 
Crush  in  our  full  hearts  our  hushed  misery. 

Yet  not  thus  ihou :  there  was  a  nobleness 

That  won  me  unto  thee  as  friend  to  friend; 
And  though  I  could  not  suffer  thy  caress, 

Nor  to  thy  love  a  joyful  listening  lend, 
It  was  a  joy  sometimes  to  hear  thy  tone, 

In  its  full  depth  more  eloquent  than  song, 
Blend  with  the  spell  of  poesy  its  own, 

And  in  its  soothing  cadence  flow  along, 
While  my  heart  stole  the  music  of  the  rhyme, 
And  beat  harmoniously  with  the  sweet  chime. 


LOVE. 

Thy  praise  was  pleasant  and  thy  kindness  dear, 

And  all  was  won  that  can  be  given,  but  love ; 
And  that  was  a  closed  fountain ;  not  a  tear, 

Of  a41  its  old-time  fullness  would  there  move 
To  the  wild  breath  of  passion !  all  was  still. 

The  calm  but  mocked  the  tumult  in  thy  soul, 
And  Hope's  death  brought  the  agonies  that  kill ; 

While  all  thy  manhood  struggled  for  control, 
My  heart  was  writhing  in  its  bitterness, 
That  it  could  not  be  loved,  and  yet  loved  less. 

And  for  this  we  are  parted.     Each  has  lost 

Something  they  prized  the  highest ;  and  both  feel 
As  if  their  path  of  fortune  had  been  crossed : 

Thou  with  thy  wound  too  rankling  soon  to  heal, 
And  me  with  my  sad  heart  made  still  more  sad ; 

But  in  the  hearts  of  both  is  a  consoling  grief, 
A  mournfulness  more  sweet  than  being  glad, 

That  could  not  find  in  pleasure  a  relief; 
Yet  would  I  lose  my  memory  of  thee, 
To  know  thy  burdened  spirit  once  more  free. 


LOVE. 

I  CAN  not  love  the  happy :  those  who  seem 
Never  to  have  known  sorrow,  from  whose  hearts 
Gushes  continually  the  caroling 
Of  thoughtless  pleasure  ;  unless  it  be  the  joy — 
The  glad  and  innocent  mirth  of  children — 
Bursting  in  happiness  from  out  pure  hearts 
Fresh  from  the  hand  of  Deity.     But  man, 
Who  has  seen  life,  beheld  its  miseries, 
Whose  thoughts  have  reached  the  compass  of  ripe  years, 


74 


LOVE. 


Should  have  within  his  heart  a  ceaseless  spring 
Of  gentle  and  out-welling  sympathies  ; 
And  they  should  course  throughout  his  spirit's  being, 
As  mountain  rivulets  traverse  the  earth — 
Refreshing  in  their  course  each  drooping  flower — 
Renewing  beauty  in  each  withered  plant — 
And  helping  everywhere  to  germinate 
The  seeds  of  virtue. 

And  thus  would  mirth  be  chaste,  and  life  be  joy, 
And  all  our  wild  propensities  be  checked ; 
And  all  our  eagerness  for  gaudy  show, 
That  so  contrasts  with  pale-cheeked  suffering, 
Would  die.     This  would  be  real  happiness ! 
And  those  whom  purity  makes  sensitive 
Would  shrink  no  more,  but  ivy-like  entwine 
The  tendrils  of  affection  round  strong  hearts. 
Love  is  a  byword — friendship  but  a  name — 
And  though  we  use  them,  rarely  do  we  think 
How  strong,  and  deep,  and  thrilling  is  their  power ! 
"  God  is  love !"  it  is  His  very  essence ; 
And  yet  the  spirit  of  the  Godhead  man 
Treats  mockingly,  and  makes  a  jest  of  all 
The  gentler  and  the  purer  attributes 
Of  soul !     0  that  the  spirit  of  true  love, 
Untrammeled,  unrestrained,  might  wander  forth, 
Breathing  a  balm  on  every  bleeding  heart — 
Binding  up  wounds — forgiving  injury — 
And  by  uniting  each  dissevered  link, 
Encircle  the  great  family  of  man 
In  one  electric  chain  of  sympathy ! 
Then  would  our  earth  again  be  Paradise, 
And  man,  though  heir  to  suffering,  yet  soothed 
By  gentleness  and  love,  would  be  more  chaste — 
Like  gold  tried  by  refiners — and  more  fit 
To  win  his  great  inheritance  of  love, 
And  life  eternal ' 


NIGHT    WHISPERS. 


NIGHT  WHISPERS. 

0  WHAT  a  night  is  tins !     The  glorious  stars 
With  their  sweet,  solemn  gaze,  seeming  to  look 

Into  our  very  souls.     Gently  !  it  mars 

The  lovely  dream  if  even  a  word  be  spoke, 

That  comes  not  like  soft  music  to  the  ear, 
Murmured,  and  low,  and  making  harmony 

With  the  still  music  of  that  higher  sphere — 
So  let  no  discord  break  the  melody. 

This  is  the  hour  for  soul-communion  meet ; 

For  talking  of  dear  loves  and  holy  things ; 
Of  themes  that  to  the  spirit  are  most  sweet, 

And  for  the  full  heart's  sweet  unburdenings. 

1  can  almost  imagine  that  my  heart 

Hath  grown  too  holy  for  a  sinful  thought ; 
So  much  the  gentle  images  that  start 

From  past  and  present  with  this  hour  are  fraught. 

The  past  hath  memories  of  the  dear  dreams 

Of  early  years — of  longings  after  love — 
Something  to  fill  the  heart,  to  drink  its  streams 

Of  pure  and  earnest  tenderness — inwove 
With  visions  of  the  future,  which  were  blent 

Of  hope  and  trust,  the  trust  of  our  first  years, 
Which  ne'er  returns  when  once  it  hath  been  lent 

To  a  false  faith,  to  be  dissolved  in  tears. 


That  glowing  dream  is  not  yet  wholly  fled, 
But  its  fair  hues  have  taken  a  deeper  dye ; 

As  the  pale  light  the  twilight  stars  have  shed, 
Is  deepened  to  full  radiance  in  the  sky. 


NIGHT    WHISPERS. 


The  heart  still  sadly  longeth,  and  in  vain ; 

For  earth  is  insufficient  to  its  love, 
And  many  a  wild  and  startling  thrill  of  pain, 

Its  too  keen  sensitiveness  still  doth  prove. 

But  there  is  such  a  joy,  a  joy  so  sweet — 

So  pure  a  transport  in  an  hour  like  this — 
When  heart  from  heart  an  answering  throb  may  meet, 

In  union  to  which  silence  adds  a  bliss ; 
When  the  soft  clasp  of  a  caressing  hand, 

Or  the  clear  glance  of  an  expressive  eye, 
Can  make  the  mutual  spirit  understand 

All  the  fine  thoughts  that  in  its  depths  may  lie. 

Our  pleasures  are  so  sweet  that  we  forget 

That  we  have  grieved  for  suffering  or  sin, 
And  only  feel  a  sad  and  soft  regret 

That  all  is  not  forever  thus  within. 
0  night !  thy  solemn  beauty  fills  my  soul 

With  a  deep  rapture,  not  unlike  to  prayer ; 
Delicious  joy,  which  I  would  not  control, 

And  only  to  be  perfect  need  to  share. 

If  there  are  hours  when  the  soul  receives 

On  its  unwritten  pages  worlds  of  thought, 
Methinks  that  now  some  spirit's  spotless  leaves 

Full  many  a  bright  imagining  hath  caught ; 
And  many  a  note  of  song,  the  voiceless  song 

Of  the  soul,  mingled  with  the  viewless  choir 
Thrilling  all  nature,  and  whose  tones  belong 

To  the  great  Source  that  nature  doth  inspire. 


SMILES. 


SMILES. 


HAVE  you  ne'er  felt,  when  the  laugh  rang  out 
With  the  merry  peal  and  the  echoed  shout, 
And  the  jest  flew  round  with  a  hearty  glee, 
And  the  bright  eye  laughed  right  merrily — 
Have  you  ne'er  felt  that  the  shaft  of  pain 
Was  meant  to  be  clothed  in  that  merry  strain  ? 

And  did  not  the  thought,  like  a  magic  spell, 

Choke  up  your  voice  with  your  spirit's  swell, 

And  your  tone  grow  hoarse  while  you  laughed  on  still, 

Though  it  fell  on  your  heart  with  a  painful  thrill ; 

And  you  trembled  and  shrunk  like  a  guilty  thing, 

Lest  the  tears  should  escape  their  hidden  spring  ? 

And  a  word,  a  single  careless  word, 
Fell  from  the  lips  that  many  heard  ; 
But  you  of  the  hearers  alone  knew  well 
What  that  careless  word  was  meant  to  tell  ; 
Still  you  jested  on  with  a  hearty  glee, 
Though  your  heart  sunk  cold  and  joylessly ! 

And  there  was  an  eye  you  feared  to  meet, 
Lest  its  glance  should  sink  to  the  deep  retreat 
Of  the  burning  thoughts  and  scalding  tears 
That  sear  the  heart  with  grief  of  years, 
And  awalscn  the  fountain  that  must  o'erflow, 
Lest  it  burst  the  heart  with  its  strength  of  woe  ! 

Far  down  in  the  spirit's  deep,  deep  well, 
There  was  hidden  a  grief  that  none  might  tell ; 
For  the  eye  laughed  on,  and  the  lip  was  bright, 
And  none  might  dream  of  hopeless  night 
Whose  shadow  so  heavy  and  cheerless  all, 
Had  wrapt  your  heart  in  its  gloomy  pall. 


*T8  TO    A    BEAUTIFUL    COQUETTE. 


0  trust  not  smiles,  for  their  light  may  hide 

A  heart  where  each  gushing  hope  hath  died ; 

And  guide  your  lips,  lest  the  careless  jest 

Should  sadden  a  heart  that  hath  long  supprest 

Its  harrowing  fears  with  a  careless  air, 

And  bound  with  a  smile-wreath  the  brow  of  despair. 


TO  A  BEAUTIFUL   COQUETTE. 

SAY  on ;  if  I  but  hear  thy  lips 

Make  music  with  their  balmy  breath, 

It  is  enough  !     I  do  not  ask 

That  they  revoke  their  doom  of  death. 

Yes,  I  did  take  the  poisoned  cup 
From  thy  fair  hand,  and  madly  drink  ; 

And  now,  when  I  have  found  'tis  death, 
Now,  even  now,  I  do  not  shrink. 

Speak !  tell  me  that  my  fevered  brain 

Was  phrensied  when  I've  thought  thou'st  smiled 
That  the  sweet  hope  I  nursed  so  long 

Was  ill-begotten — Fancy's  child. 

Call  me  thy  slave — a  fond,  mad  fool — 
Thou'lt  say,  alas,  one  mournful  truth, 

For  I  have  wasted  in  this  dream 
The  best  of  life,  the  pride  of  youth. 

Say  this,  and  more,  and  with  the  scorn 
That  suits  thee  better  than  thy  smile, 

Thy  frown,  though  bitter,  can  not  harm — 
'Tis  in  the  sweetness  lurks  the  guile  ! 


SNOWDROPS. 


79 


Ay,  let  thy  proud  lip  wear  for  me 
The  scornful  curve  it  graces  so ; 

The  challenge  may  perchance  call  forth 
My  slumbering  pride — I  do  not  know. 

Yet  hardly  still  can  I  despise  - 

The  falsehood  that  hath  been  so  sweet ; 
Hardly,  when  thinking  on  our  past, 

My  burning  words  of  scorn  repeat. 

Yet  do  I  scorn  thee  ;  in  my  soul 
My  nobler  nature  spurns  thy  art ; 

And  though  my  senses  are  enthralled, 
A  higher  shrine  must  have  my  heart. 

Go,  fair  enchantress ;  not  thy  brow, 
Or  lip,  or  cheek,  or  witching  grace, 

Or  seeming  worth,  can  ever  win 

In  this  changed  heart  a  lasting  place. 


SNOWDROPS. 

O  TAKE  away  your  snowdrops  pale,  I  can  not  bear  the  sight — 
They  were  woven  in  our  Ada's  hair  upon  her  bridal  night ; 
And  fairer  looked  the  snowy  buds  than  India's  rarest  pearls, 
And  fairer  than  them  both  the  brow  that  beamed  beneath  her 

curls. 

That  lily  brow,  those  tresses  dark,  0  ne'er  so  fair  a  bride 
Hath  trembled  at  the  altar- place  her  chosen  one  beside  ; 
And  never  heart  more  pure  and  fond,  a  wedding  gift  was  brought 
Than  Ada's  in  its  sinlessness,  its  sweet  and  earnest  thought. 
The  snowy  robe,  and  lily  brow,  and  bridal  garland  pale, 
And  dark  bright  tresses  shining  through  the  silver- woven  vail; 


80  SNOWDROPS. 


The  delicately  tinted  cheek,  the  bright  lips'  sweet  unrest, 
That  quivered  all  unconsciously  to  the  pulse  within  her  breast ; 
The  drooping  eyelid  glittering  with  bright  and  happy  tears — 
The  memory  of  that  bridal  night  hath  haunted  me  for  years. 

But  take  away  your  pale,  pale  wreath,  I  can  not  bear  the  sight ; 

I  saw  it  on  our  Ada's  brow  upon  another  night ; 

Another  night — 0  if  her  brow  outshone  the  wreath  before, 

Sure  nothing  earthly  matched  the  white  her  brow  and  cheek  then 

wore : 

So  pallid  that  the  tracery  of  the  blue,  delicate  vein 
Upon  the  temple  passed  away,  with  all  its  violet  stain  ; 
Gone  was  all  light,  all  radiance  ;  with  moveless  lip  and  limb 
She  listened  to  the  dreadful  words  they  whispered  her  of  him ; 
The  husband  of  her  bridehood  false !  her  frightened  soul  seemed 

flown, 

And  the  pale  buds  to  wreathe  a  brow  above  a  heart  of  stone. 
0  beautiful,  most  beautiful,  but  like  a  marble  vase, 
Whence  life  and  perfume  both  are  fled,  the  beauty  of  her  face ; 
For  fearfully  and  fatally  the  sudden  terror  came, 
And  quenched  her  life  as  would  the  sea  a  little  incense  flame  ; 
And  standing  like  a  Hindoo  girl  who  sees  her  lamp  expire,. 
Her  soul  died  out  as  music  dies  along  a  breaking  lyre. 
That  night  the  wreath  that  decked  the  bride  was  loosened  from 

her  hair, 
And  the  dark  tresses  straitened  back  with  still  and  reverent  care. 

But  soon  ao-ain  we  wove  a  wreath  of  buds  as  white  as  snow ; 

O 

We  could  not  bear  that  even   the  grave  should  witness  to  her 

woe ; 
We  twined  them  with  her  braided  hair,  and  placed  them  on  her 

breast, 

And  laid  her  softly  down  to  sleep  in  a  sweet  place  of  rest ; 
But  these  fair  buds  bring  back  the  scene,  and  the  two  that  went 

before, 

Then  bring  to  twine  about  my  brow  your  snowy  wreath  no  more  j 
For  fairer  though  they  be  than  pearls,  I  can  not  bear  the  sight 
Of  snowdrops  woven  in  a  wreath  since  that  remembered  night. 


BIRTHDAY    OF    AUTUMN. 


81 


BIRTHDAY  OF  AUTUMN. 

EARLY  awake  this  morn  !  my  spirit  shook 

Drowsiness  from  its  plumes  before  the  birds ; 
And  up  beside  my  window  with  a  book, 

I  strive  to  find  a  magic  in  the  words. 
But  thought  claims  precedence ;  and  with  my  eye 

Playing  to  lore  the  truant,  I  look  on 
Village  and  field,  and  river,  wood  and  sky 

Just  bright'ning  with  the  first  September  sun. 

Autumn  has  come  again,  the  autumn-time 

Ever  so  glorious  in  our  lovely  land ; 
And  where  is  there  a  lovelier  ?     What  clime 

Yields  such  a  wealth  of  blessings  to  your  hand  ? 
But  what  I  love  in  the  autumnal  days 

Is  their  delicious  dreaminess,  that  fills 
The  spirit  with  a  mellow,  golden  haze 

Like  that  throughout  the  atmosphere ;  one  thrills, 

If  a  leaf  flutter  on  the  wayside  trees, 

Or  insect  sudden  wind  its  tiny  horn, 
Or  if  springs  up  anon  the  fitful  breeze, 

Scattering  the  leaves  its  idle  force  had  torn. 
There  is  a  conscious  bliss  in  every  thing ; 

The  very  shadows  deeper,  cooler  seem, 
Making  us  wish  that  we  aside  could  fling 

Life's  waking  cares,  and  lay  us  down  and  dream. 


The  sun's  rays  grown  less  vertical,  have  now 
The  soft  gold  that  the  painters  imitate ; 

And  tones  come  whispered  from  each  waving  bough, 
Sweeter  than  all  that  genius  can  create ; 


82  BIRTHDAY    OF    AUTUMN. 

The  low,  wild,  shivering  music  of  the  leaves, 
That  move  like  ripples  on  a  silver  sea, 

Sinking  and  swelling  ever,  as  it  heaves 
Soft  wavering  sighs  of  pensive  melody. 


When,  too,  the  yellow-garbed  October  comes, 

With  breezy  days,  and  grand,  wild,  moonlight  nights ; 
When  louder  every  busy  insect  hums 

The  requiem  of  its  day  so  short  and  bright ; 
And  when  men  love  the  sunshine,  not  the  shade, 

Sitting  at  noon  beneath  the  leafless  vine, 
That  in  the  summer  dewy  coolness  made, 

And  bore  the  flowers  that  Beauty  loved  to  twine. 

Even  the  chill  November  throws  sometimes 

Aside  her  cloudy  mantle,  and  looks  out 
With  a  warm  azure  sky,  tempting  the  chimes 

Of  lingering  birds  and  childhood's  merry  shout. 
But  must  we  close  the  window ;  we  can  lie 

Snug  in  our  easy  chairs,  and  read  or  dream, 
Musing  how  oft  the  seasons  hurry  by, 

Leaving  us  ever  farther  down  life's  stream. 

0  if  the  autumn  of  our  life  came  on 

Prepared  for  winter  like  the  fading  year, 
With  plenty  stored,  and  summer  labor  done, 

There  would  be  little  in  old  age  to  fear. 
Youth's  feverish  pulses  would  have  grown  more  cold, 

Its  dark  locks  braided  with  some  threads  of  gray ; 
But  the  wise  heart,  like  wine  that  has  grown  old, 

Gains  without  losing  by  the  long  delay. 


THE  HEART'S  REQUIEM. 


83 


THE  HEART'S  REQUIEM. 

"  A  REQUIEM  !  and  for  whom  ? 

For  beauty  in  its  bloom  ? 
For  valor  fallen — a  broken  rose  or  sword  ? 

A  dirge  for  king  or  chief, 

With  pomp  of  stately  grief, 
Banner,  and  torch,  and  waving  plume  deplored  ? 

"Not  so!  it  is  not  so!" 

No  sounding  wail  of  woe 
Swells  to  the  heavens  when  human  hearts  lie  dead 

No  torch  lights  up  the  gloom 

Of  the  heart's  ray  less  tomb ; 
No  funeral  incense  o'er  its  dust  is  shed. 

Wild  was  that  heart's  distress, 

Fierce  the  dark  bitterness 
With  which  it  bore  its  heavy  griefs  untold ; 

Scorning  the  poor  relief 

The  false  world  offers  grief — 
Disdaining  sympathy  so  false  and  cold. 

Silent,  unwept,  alone 

Breathing  into  the  tone 
Of  its  last  long  and  passionate  farewell, 

Whole  treasures  of  rich  thought, 

With  the  soul's  fullness  fraught, 
Then  dying  with  the  melody's  last  swell. 

Not  the  loud  mournful  dirge, 

Sung  by  the  ocean's  surge, 
Above  the  grave  where  buried  thousands  lie, 

Rises  to  Heaven's  high  throne 

With  more  emphatic  tone, 
Or  with  a  note  of  purer  majesty. 


84  THE  HEART'S  REQUIEM. 

In  one  poor  human  heart    • 

These  thrilling  accents  start, 
And  mingle  into  music  wild  and  deep  ; 

Swelling  in  one  rich  strain 

Of  earthly  joy  and  pain, 
Then  trembling  softly,  die  away  to  sleep. 

0  for  earth's  hapless  trust ! 

Its  "  mingled  mind  and  dust" 
Make  with  each  other  such  continual  strife ! 

0  for  the  hapless  faith 

That  meets  reward  in  death, 
Mourning  the  bitter  chilliness  of  life. 

Earth,  earth  !  thy  sods  have  pressed 

Lightly  on  many  a  breast 
That  could  not  bear  its  weight  of  living  woe  ; 

Full  many  a  heart  hath  come 

To  thy  embrace  of  gloom, 
Blessing  thy  coldness  to  the  world's  false  glow. 

"  One  more,  then,  one  more  strain 
To  earthly  joy  and  pain, 

A  rich,  and  deep,  and  passionate  farewell ! 
Pour  out  each  fervent  thought 
With  fear,  hope,  trembling  fraught, 

Into  the  notes  the  last  this  heart  shall  swell." 


MY    SOUL    IS    DARK. 


85 


"MY  SOUL  IS  DARK." 

EVER  down  Time's  rapid  river, 
Toward  the  distant,  dim  Forever, 
Ceasing  not,  and  ceasing  never — 

From  this  mortal  shore, 
Is  our  life  forever  sliding, 
Gliding  still,  and  ever  gliding, 
With  no  pause,  and  no  abiding, 

Till  Time's  tide  is  o'er. 

I  am  sitting  in  the  glimmer 

Of  the  twilight  growing  dimmer, 

As  the  stars  begin  to  shimmer 

Through  the  darkening  blue; 
And  my  soul  is  sad  to  weeping, 
With  the  memories  'tis  keeping, 
Memories  that  know  no  sleeping, 

No  nepenthean  dew. 

Life's  frail  bark  is  onward  drifting, 
Where  care's  stormy  winds  are  shifting, 
And  no  cloud  of  darkness  lifting 

Lets  the  light  shine  through ; 
Backward  do  I  look  with  yearning, 
My  sad  soul  intensely  burning, 
But  for  me  there  is  no  turning — 

Onward  I  must  go. 

Onward  borne,  but  backward  looking, 
While  my  anguished  soul  is  brooking 
All  the  gentle,  sad  rebuking 

Of  the  Past's  dim  face ; 
Forms  from  memory's  shore  entreating, 
Beckon  me  unto  their  meeting, 
But  I  can  not — farther  fleeting 

From  each  dear  embrace 
8 


86  A    LETTER. 


Lo  !  the  parting  distance  groweth, 
And  the  river  deeper  floweth, 
And  the  sky  no  signal  showeth 

All  is  dark  and  drear ; 
Without  oar  or  pilot  floating — 
Fearful  is  such  lonely  boating, 
Where,  unseen,  the  ear  is  noting 

Mighty  depths  a-near ! 

Hark !  I  hear  the  river's  pouring, 
Mingling  with  the  ocean's  roaring- 
God  !   I  lift  to  Thee  imploring 

My  benighted  heart; 
Be  thou  with  me  on  life's  river, 
Guide  me  to  the  great  Forever — 
Light,  and  Help,  and  Glory  ever, 

Thou  my  Pharos  art ! 


A  LETTER. 

I  LOOK  upon  the  young  moon  in  the  sky, 
And  my  thoughts  image  thee !     Have  you  forgot 
That  which  I  told  you  in  the  sweet  "  lang  syne/' 
When  I  was  young  enough  to  dream  of  faith 
Kept  for  a  lifetime  sacred  ?     Hollow  dream  ! 
Ah,  then  I  told  you  on  a  happy  hour, 
On  a  night  like  to  this,  that  while  the  moon 
Brightened  and  darkened  to  my  living  eyes, 
There  was  one  image  should  rise  when  it  rose, 
Shine  as  it  shone,  and  should  set  darkly  never ! 
That  was  my  heart's  first  vow.     My  lips  had  breathed 
Girlhood's  "forget-me-not,"  and  "ever-thine," 


A    LETTER. 


To  other  ears  before ;  but  'twas  the  strain 
The  wind  awakens  passing  o'er  a  lyre — 
The  natural  melody  the  young  heart  yields 
Even  to  love's  lightest  whisper.     But  there  came 
At  length  a  master,  with  the  power  to  thrill 
The  finest  chord  in  all  the  spirit's  being. 
Thou  wert  the  master ;  and  thy  hand  awoke 
All  of  the  slumbering  music  in  my  soul — 
The  strain  whose  echo  lingers  in  my  heart, 
Resounding  through  its  labyrinths  forever. 
But  'tis  the  echo  only  that  remains ; 
The  strain  is  still  forever,  and  the  chords 
Of  the  soft  lyre  that  thrilled  so  wildly  then, 
Would  break  in  shrinking  from  the  very  touch 
That  once  made  such  sweet  singing.     But  'tis  past. 
I  have  been  sad  and  happy  many  times 
Since  we  together  have  e'er  wept  or  smiled ; 
And  my  heart  beats  as  ever  was  its  wont — 
Slowly  and  pensively — save  now  and  then, 
When  the  desire  for  love  grows  suddenly  strong, 
And  all  the  slumbering  lava  of  the  heart 
Pours  itself  through  the  channels  of  the  blood, 
Making  thought  feverish,  and  the  pulses  high. 
But  this  was  in  my  nature,  and  'twas  this 
Pining  for  love,  and  pride  of  intellect, 
That  made  thee  seem  so  godlike  in  my  eyes. 
But  thou  of  all  thy  glory  hast  been  shorn, 
And  thy  great  gifts  are  nothing  to  the  shame 
Of  the  mean  sin  of  falsehood.     I  forget 
The  selfish  thought  that  thy  deceit  wronged  me, 
In  sorrow  for  the  ruin  that  was  wrought 
In  the  most  perfect  beauty  of  the  soul, 
When  the  vail  parted,  and  I  saw  untruth 
Wedded  to  bright-browed  wisdom. 

Let  it  pass ! 

Or  I  shall  make  a  lecture,  which  I  meant  not, 
For  I  began  by  talking  of  the  moon. 


A    SCRAP    FROM    MY    PORTFOLIO. 


Ay,  let  it  pass — it  is  a  lesson  more ; 
And  daily  we  learn  something  of  the  world 
Which  it  is  well  to  know,  though  learning  it 
We  tread  on  thorns  where  we  saw  only  roses, 
And  find  an  ignis  fatuus  in  a  star. 


A  SCRAP  FROM  MY  PORTFOLIO. 

NAY,  uncurl  thy  lip  of  pride, 

Scorn  not  wholly  human  weakness ; 

Thou  shalt  learn,  when  thou  art  tried, 
More  of  sin-forgiving  meekness. 

Is  the  world's  condemning  sneer 

Cast  upon  thy  fellow-man  ? 
Bravely  let  thy  smile,  thy  tear, 

Cheer  to  virtue  if  it  can. 

Does  the  frail  one  pass  thee  by 
With  a  bended  brow  of  sadness — 

Frown  not,  in  that  heart  now  lie 

Thoughts  that  scorch  the  brain  to  madness, 

Life  is  strong,  and  hearts  are  frail — 

In  the  struggle  man  may  fall ; 
But  if  aught  from  us  avail, 

Shall  we  answer  not  the  call  ? 

Check  thy  spirit's  wayward  scorn, 
Wreathe  thy  lip  with  smiles  of  love, 

Bind  the  heart  remorse  hath  torn, 
And  let  kindness  virtue  move. 


TO    ONE    WHO    BADE    ME    "  GO    WIN    A    NAME 


Feel  no  shame  that  thou  hast  been 

Gentle  to  the  erring  one, 
That  the  soul  once  dark  with  sin 

Fairer  'neath  thy  smile  hath  grown. 


TO  ONE  WHO  BADE  ME  "GO  WIN  A  NAME.' 

POET  !  whose  prophetic  numbers 

Seem  to  point  me  to  a  name, 
Know  that  in  my  bosom  slumbers 

Every  pulse  that  wakes  to  fame. 

Themes  like  mine  are  not  for  glory ! 

Thoughts  like  mine  win  feeble  praise ; 
Mine  is  not  the  classic  story, 

Mine  are  not  scholastic  lays. 

Not  from  tome  of  art  or  learning 
Came  the  spark  of  sacred  fire ; 

But  the  heart  within  me  burning, 
Formed  itself  into  a  lyre. 

And  among  its  frail  shreds  ever 

Spirit-voices  whisper  low — 
Spirit-voices  which  are  never 

Echoed  in  this  world  below. 

Mind  may  be  renowned  for  ages, 

Reason  rear  her  altar  high, 
But  the  heart's  more  humble  pages 

Live  unread,  and  darkened  die. 


90  MADELINE. 


Like  Eolian  harp-chords  waking 
To  each  starting  of  the  gale, 

And  in  some  strong  tempest  breaking 
With  a  wild  and  mournful  wail — 

So  the  heart-strings  thrill  and  quiver 
To  the  world's  rude  borean  breath, 

Till  the  "  silver  cords"  do  sever, 
Or  are  gently  loosed  by  death. 

So,  as  notes  Eolian  perish, 

When  the  breeze  has  died  away, 

Will  the  soul-strains  now  I  cherish 
Live  but  only  for  a  day. 


MADELINE. 

I  NEVER  saw  aught  like  to  what  thou  art — 

A  spirit  so  peculiar  in  its  mould, 
With  so  much  wildness,  and  with  yet  a  part 

Of  all  the  softer  beauties  we  behold : 
So  dark  and  still  at  times,  thy  spirit  seeming 

Like  waters  sheltered  from  the  shining  sun, 
Hidden  in  the  dim  mantle  of  its  dreaming, 

As  if  it  joyed  all  earthliness  to  shun ; 

And  yet  again,  emerging  from  its  dream 

Thy  soul  shines  forth,  pellucid  as  the  air ; 
And  0  so  lovely  and  so  bright,  we  deem 

That  mortal  sprite  could  never  be  so  fair ! 
Thy  thoughts  in  their  rare  current  stilly  gliding 

Glimmer  so  starrily  through  thy  pure  eyes, 
Revealing  glimpses  of  the  heart's  wealth  hiding 

Within  their  depths,  gem-bedded  like  the  skies. 


TO    EDITH    MAY. 


91 


Thy  form  seems  moulded  in  thy  soul's  own  grace — 

Adapted  to  express  each  subtile  thought — 
So  fair  and  lucid  is  thy  lily  face, 

Thy  motion  with  such  witchery  is  fraught. 
There  is  so  much  in  every  act  of  thine, 

That  tells  thy  soul  keepeth  an  angel  guard, 
Their  glorious  wings  do  almost  seem  to  shine 

A  heavenly  halo  round  their  lovely  ward. 

Alas !  when  I  do  gaze  on  thee,  my  spirit 

Longeth  for  Paradise,  and  vaguely  dreams, 
Wondering  if  there  itself  will  not  inherit 

Some  of  such  brightness  as  around  thee  beams : 
Surely  the  music,  and  the  unfading  flowers, 

And  forms  of  light  that  walk  the  courts  of  heaven, 
Do  fill  thy  visions  in  thy  musing  hours, 

So  that  to  thee  their  semblance  has  been  given. 


TO  EDITH  MAY. 

I  HAVE  not  seen  thee,  Edith  May ;  they  say  thy  face  is  fair — 

But  I  know  thy  soul,  that  is  not  seen,  and  know  it  high  and  rare ; 

And  I  love  thee  by  a  sign  that's  given  to  every  poet  soul — 

That  spirit-linking  sympathy  beyond  our  own  control. 

There  is  a  lyre  within  my  heart  as  there  is  one  in  thine, 

But  a  plaintive,  low- voiced,  murmuring  thing  is   this  frail  lyre  of 

mine; 

Not  grand,  and  wild,  and  proudly  toned,  yet  scorning  mirth  withal, 
Like  the  harps  our  fancy  hears  at  times  in  some  old  knightly  hall ; 
But  softly  glad  and  wildly  sad,  with  a  thousand  nameless  strings 
That  wake,  as  doth  the  rose-leaf  wake,  to  the  breath  of  unseen 

things. 


92  TO    EDITH    MAY. 


Not  less  for  this  it  echoes  all  the  tones  of  higher  skill, 
And  trembles  most  with  rapture  when  another's  touch  can  thrill. 
For  this  I  love  ihee,  Edith  May,  thy  spirit's  voice  I  hear, 
Like  the  strain  of  some  grand  melody  resounding  in  my  ear ; 
And  visions  rise  before  my  eyes  of  hosts  in  armor  bound, 
And  like  a  voice  within  a  dream,  I  hear  the  clarion's  sound ; 
And  gorgeous  banners  broidered  o'er  with  many  a  strange  design, 
With  burnished  lance  and  waving  plume,  deck  out  the  shadowy 

line — 

Anon  the  sunset's  crimson  cloud  is  fading  o'er  the  hill, 
And  the  chieftain's  farewell  bugle-note  is  sounding  sad  and  shrill ; 

And  standing  on  the  castle  wall  I  see  a  lady  fair, 
With  pallid  face,  and  waving  scarf,  and  unbound  raven  hair ; 
While  winding  up  the  distant  hill  the  long  defile  hath  passed, 
And  the  lady  on  the  chief  she  loved  hath  fondly  looked  her  last. 
All  old-time  scenes  of  war  and  pomp,  of  love  and  minstrelsy, 
Of  kingly  sports,  and  courtly  dames,  and  knightly  rivalry  ; 
All  by-gone  themes  once  wont  to  stir  the  blood  of  princely  men, 
Swell  my  dreaming  heart  with  lofty  pride,  and  the  dead  past  lives 

again ; 
And  I  love  thy  harp's  grand  tone  that  wakes  my  spirit's  high 

romance, 
And  praise  thee  that  thou  hast  for  thine  this  rich  inheritance. 

I  have  a  sister,  Edith  May,  a  sister  pure  and  young, 
With  a  holy  heart,  and  gifted  mind,  and  sweetly  eloquent  tongue  ; 
And  to  her  I  bear  a  feeling  which  can  have  no  earthly  name, 
But  our  souls  are  linked,  our  hearts  are  joined,  and  our  loves  are 

aye  the  same ; 

And  a  glorious  world  of  dreams  have  we,  a  rare  poetic  world, 
Where  fancy's  restless  golden  wings  are  glittering  unfurled — 
Where  love  sits  like  a  household  form,  a  dear,  familiar  thing, 
And  countless  fairy  visions  float  forever  on  the  wing ; 
And  here  amid  the  whispered  strains  of  spirit-minstrelsy, 
I  listen  with  my  dreaming  soul  for  one  wild  note  from  thee. 

I  have  not  seen  thee,  Edith  May — they  call  thy  youthful  face 
The  lovely  index  of  the  soul,  its  poetry  and  grace ; 


THE     RIVER'S    SECRET. 


93 


And  blest  I  deem  that  thou  must  be,  so  gifted,  young,  and  fair, 
Yet  these  alone  fill  not  the  heart  if  love  be  wanting  there ; 
For  hearts  like  ours,  dear  Edith  May,  need  love  as  do  the  flowers 
The  breath  of  the  caressing  wind  and  heaven's  genial  showers : 
And  I  would  breathe  a  prayer  to  God  to  bless  thy  heart's  young 

dream, 

But  with  those  peerless  gifts  of  thine  my  prayer  would  idle  seem. 
Then  fare-thee-well,  young  poetess !  may  not  my  waiting  ear 
List  long  in  vain  for  that  wild  strain  it  loveth  most  to  hear. 


THE  RIVER'S  SECRET. 

A  LADY  sought  the  river's  side  at  night, 

A  lovely  lady,  delicately  fair ; 
With  eyes  and  jewels  gloriously  bright, 

And  flowing  robe,  and  flowing  sable  hair  * 
Fair  was  the  lady  beyond  poesy, 

Fairer  than  knight  or  minstrel  ever  dreamed ; 
Proud  was  the  lady,  as  would  lady  be, 

By  all  the  land  the  Queen  of  Beauty  deemed. 

Unto  the  river's  side  she  came  alone, 

That  fair  proud  lady  in  the  hush  of  night ; 
And  kneeling  'neath  the  stars,  began  to  moan, 

Clasping  her  forehead  with  her  fingers  white ; 
"  Oh,  Harold,  Harold  !  comest  thou  no  more, 

Even  to  mourn,  where  we  so  oft  have  met  ? 
Ah,  woe  is  me,  the  haughty  Isadore, 

When  Harold  proves  the  readiest  to  forget !" 

Thus  grieved  the  lady  for  her  cruelty, 

And  called  upon  her  Harold's  name  with  tears 

But  midnight  came  and  parted  silently, 

And  yet  no  Harold  soothed  the  lady's  fears. 


94 


And  still  she  mourned,  and  still  the  sullen  river 
Rolled  onward,  without  heeding  her  complain — 

The  cold,  dark,  ruthless,  unrelenting  river, 
Whose  bosom  held  the  mystery  of  her  pain. 

A  night  agone,  a  secret  had  been  given 

Into  its  keeping,  and  it  kept  it  well ; 
No  witness  was  there  save  the  stars  and  heaven, 

And  what  the  angels  see  they  do  not  tell. 
Down,  down  beneath  the  flood,  upon  a  pillow 

Of  moss-grown  rock  the  form  of  Harold  lay ; 
Sleeping  as  sweetly  as  'twere  not  the  billow 

That  sung  to  him,  instead  of  lady  gay  ! 

After  a  time  the  cold  dark  river  parted, 

And  two  forms  lay  beneath  the  sullen  wave ; 
A  lovely  lady,  pale  and  broken-hearted, 

Had  found  unconsciously  her  lover's  grave. 
And  side  by  side,  beneath  the  darksome  river, 

That  kept  their  secret  well  for  evermore, 
Sleep  hearts  once  brave,  that  broke  in  life's  wild  fever, 

The  noble  Harold,  and  fair  Isadore. 

Strange  are  the  legends  that  the  minstrels  tell 

Of  "  fairie  ladie,"  and  of  knight  betrayed  ; 
But  the  dark  river  keeps  their  secret  well, 

And  none  e'er  found  where  their  deep  graves  were  made  ; 
The  river,  dark  and  sullen  as  of  yore, 

Told  only  me  the  fate  of  Isadore. 


RESOLUTION.  95 


RESOLUTION. 

ROOM,  room  for  the  freed  spirit !     Let  it  fling 

Its  pinions  worn  with  bondage  once  more  wide, 
And  if  in  earth  or  air  there  is  a  thing 

To  stay  its  soaring,  let  the  heavens  chide ! 
Away,  the  silken  bondage  of  young  dreams ; 

No  more  in  gentle  dalliance  I'll  lay 
My  hand  upon  my  lute,  like  one  who  seems 

In  half  unconscious  idleness  to  play. 

But  all  there  is  in  me  of  living  soul, 

Of  high,  proud  daring,  or  of  untried  trust, 
Shall  not  be  subject  longer  to  control ; 

For  my  desire  is  upward,  and  I  must 
Spurn  back  the  fetters  of  the  slothful  past 

As  a  loosed  captive  tramples  on  his  chain ; 
From  now,  henceforth,  my  destiny  is  cast, 

And  what  I  will,  I  surely  shall  attain. 

Onward  and  upward !  strengthening  in  their  flight, 

My  thoughts  must  "all  be  eagle  thoughts,"  nor  bend 
Their  pinions  downward,  until  on  the  height 

That  nurses  Helicon's  pure  fount  I  stand. 
Onward,  my  soul !  nor  either  shrink  nor  turn, 

Be  cold  to  pleasure  and  be  calm  to,  pain  ; 
However  much  the  yielding  heart  may  yearn, 

Listen  not,  listen  not,  it  is  in  vain  ! 

Upward  !  "  a  feeling  like  the  sense  of  wings," 

A  proud,  triumphant  feeling  buoys  me  up, 
And  my  soul  drinks  refreshment  from  the  streams 

That  fill  forever  joy's  enchanted  cup. 
A  glorious  sense  of  power  within  me  lies, 

A  knowledge  of  my  yet  untested  strength, 
And  my  impatient  spirit  only  sighs 

For  the  far  goal  to  be  attained  at  length. 


96  TALE    OF    THE    FOREST. 


TALE  OF  THE  FOREST. 

I  KNOW  of  a  spot  in  our  Western  woods, 
Where  the  deep  shadows  lie  on  the  rushing  floods, 
Where  the  foam  and  the  mist  are  as  white  as  snow 
On  the  dark  brown  sides  of  the  rocks  below ; 
Where  yet  deeper  down  I  can  see  the  gleam 
Of  the  sunshine  broad  on  the  glimmering  stream, 
Through  arches  of  green,  twined  of  leaves  that  shiver 
To  the  breath  of  the  wind  and  the  sound  of  the  river. 

There  are  violets  growing  there  all  the  year, 
When  the  leaves  of  the  forest  are  dry  and  sere, 
Fed  by  the  dew  that  distils  all  the  day 
From  the  moist  green  leaves  or  the  river's  spray ; 
And  a  bird  with  a  soft,  wild,  silvery  note, 
And  a  sound  of  grief  in  its  little  throat, 
Has  chosen  the  shade  for  its  lonely  song — 
To  that  bird  and  to  me  does  the  place  belong. 

There,  when  the  summer  was  fairest,  I  made 
At  the  falling  of  twilight,  a  grave— and  laid 
A  heart  that  was  weary  forever  to  rest — 
The  heart  that  had  broke  in  my  beating  breast ; 
Wrapt  and  shrouded  in  mist,  and  covered  in  gloom, 
Mourned  by  the  bird  and  the  drooping  plume 
Of  the  evergreen  trees  that  bend  o'er  the  flood, 
I  left  it  to  sleep  in  that  wild  solitude. 

When  the  summer  hung  light  on  the  maple  boughs, 

And  the  birds  in  the  greenwood  were  singing  their  vows, 

Came  I  one  sunset  and  sat  where  the  gleam 

Glanced  from  the  young  leaves  and  fell  on  the  stream  ; 

And  sitting  I  heard  what  my  spirit  hears  yet, 

And  the  heart  that  I  buried  can  never  forget ; 

Holy  and  solemn  the  vow  that  was  made— 

Ere  summer  had  ripened  the  vow  was  betrayed. 


INDIAN    SUMMER.  97 


Now  where  the  autumn  leaves  lie  on  the  ground, 
And  the  dark  river  flows  with  a  sullen  sound, 
And  the  white  cloud  of  mist  rises  up  from  the  gloom 
Like  the  ghost  that  I  laid  bursting  out  of  its  tomb, 
Come  I  each  twilight  and  pillow  my  head 
On  the  dark  withered  leaves — the  grave  of  the  dead, 
And  list  to  the  murmur  of  leaves  and  of  river, 
Praying  sleep  may  descend  on  my  eyelids  forever. 


INDIAN   SUMMER. 

TELL  me,  ye  whose  locks  are  whiter 

Than  the  frozen  winter  snow, 
Tell  me  if  your  hearts  grew  lighter, 
And  your  hopes  of  heaven  brighter, 

As  the  beat  of  life  grew  slow  ; 
Is  there,  say,  an  Indian  summer 

After  life's  autumnal  glow  ? 

Gentle  youth,  and  ardent  manhood, 
Spring  and  summer  emblem  well  ; 

Ripened  fields  and  fading  greenwood, 

Withered  blossoms,  pale  and  wind-strewed, 
Of  life's  wasting  fullness  tell ; 

And  the  bleak  and  barren  winter 
Has  in  age  its  parallel. 

But  when  all  the  freshness  faded 
And  the  wintry  cold  was  near, 

When  the  locks  that  once  had  shaded 

Youthful  brows,  with  gray  were  braided, 
Were  your  spirits  cold  and  drear  ? 

Or  came  there  a  mellow  brightness 
Warming  life's  dull  atmosphere  ? 
9 


98  INDIAN    SUMMER. 

Tell  me,  for  I  dread  the  healing 
Of  the  heart  above  its  dead — 

Its  dead  dreams  of  hope  and  feeling, 

And  its  passionate  revealing 
In  the  bitter  tear-drops  shed 

Long,  and  long,  by  wounded  fondness — 
Wounded  love  that  wept  and  bled. 

Tell  me  that,  though  pale  and  withered, 
All  the  flowers  of  feeling  lie ; 

That  no  frost  above  has  gathered, 

And  no  icy  bound  has  tethered 
The  strong  soul's  intensity  ; 

Tell  me  ye  can  love  and  suffer, 
Hope  and  trust  yet  earnestly. 

Let  me  think  that  calm  and  holy, 
Gently  warm  and  softly  light, 

Neither  gay  nor  melancholy, 

Neither  sad  nor  joyous  wholly, 
But  all  sweetly  still  and  bright, 

Like  a  lovely  Indian  summer, 

Age  may  come  and  bring  no  blight. 

But  if  storms  must  moan  and  shiver, 
Through  life's  late  autumnal  trees, 

God  !  I  pray  thee,  though  they  quiver 

Life's  frail  cords  for  aye  and  ever, 
With  the  sharpest  agonies, 

Let  my  soul  remain  unaltered, 
My  heart  keep  its  sympathies. 

Let  life's  fever,  hot  and  burning, 
All  consume  me  with  its  flame  ; 

Let  me  die  of  hopeless  yearning, 

And  a  grief  that  knows  no  turning 
Feed  upon  my  mortal  frame, 

Till  it  perish  with  endurance, 

But  quench  not  my  spirit's  flame  ! 


THE    TALISMAN.  99 

Softly  bright,  or  wildly  glaring, 

Let  my  soul-fires  ever  shine, 
Full  of  passion  high  and  daring, 
Or  the  warm,  soft  radiance  wearing 

That  is  given  for  a  sign 
That  the  soul  within  is  lighted 

At  some  holy  angel-shrine  ; 
But  let  not  the  senseless  coldness 

Of  a  withered  heart  be  mine. 


THE  TALISMAN. 

WHAT  would  ye  give,  ye  triflers,  say, 
Young  men  and  maidens,  what  would  ye 
Bestow  to  know  the  mystery 
Of  what  an  angel  said  to  me — 

An  angel  said  to  me  one  day  ? 

Ah,  dark  and  heavy  was  my  soul ! 
Once  had  it  been  all  gay  and  light, 
And  fearing  not  the  coming  blight, 
Had  perched  itself  on  pleasure's  height, 

And  writ  its  name  on  pleasure's  scroll. 

But  soon,  too  soon,  a  change  o'ercame 
My  spirit,  and  my  heart  was  broke — 
Was  broke  and  bowed  beneath  the  yoke 
Of  grief  too  sacred  to  be  spoke, 

Yet  eating  out  my  soul  like  flame. 

Then,  to  my  side  an  angel  stole — 
An  angel  with  bright  shining  hair, 
And  sweet  young  face  divinely  fair — 
Speaking  with  voice  more  soft  and  rare 

Than  music's  most  voluptuous  roll. 


100  THE    TALISMAN. 


"Peace,  peace,"  the  radiant  being  spoke; 
And  on  my  heart's  tumultuous  swell 
The  oil  of  holy  stillness  fell, 
And  calmed  it  with  a  sacred  spell 

Too  sweet  and  reverent  to  be  broke. 

"  Thy  soul  is  dark,"  the  angel  said ; 
"  A  land  of  shadow  round  thee  lies ; 
And  shapes  of  fear  thy  soul  surprise, 
From  which  thou  canst  not  turn  thine  eyes, 

Lest  thou  shouldst  be  pursued  with  dread. 

"  But  I  will  give  to  thee  a  light 

Whose  beams  shall  fright  the  shades  away, 
And  make  for  thee  a  perfect  day ; 
That  light  is  love ;  and  with  its  ray 

Thy  soul  shall  shine  serenely  bright. 

"  Love  thou  thy  God — thy  friend — the  world — 
And  labor  for  thy  love's  true  sake ; 
Then  shall  no  gloom  thy  path  o'ertake 
Which  thou  hast  not  the  power  to  break ; 

The  wings  of  darkness  shall  be  furled 

"  For  evermore  ;  and  on  thy  heart 
The  freshness  of  new  joys  descend ; 
And  with  thy  hopes  a  trust  shall  blend 
That  shall  not  fail  thee  to  the  end, 

Though  all  life's  pleasing  dreams  depart. 

"  Take  thou  the  talisman,  and  go 

Upon  the  path  of  life  once  more  ; 

It  can  not  fail  thee ;"  and  before 

The  music  of  his  voice  was  o'er, 
The  angel  melted  in  a  glow 

Of  golden  light  along  the  floor. 


THE    TWENTY-FOUR    HOURS, 


101 


THE  TWENTY-FOUR  HOURS. 


ONE. 

THE  spell  is  perfect !  every  charm  of  night 

Has  worked  its  deep  enchantment  on  the  world : 
Slumber,  and  silence,  and  the  mystic  light 

Of  the  white,  ghostly  moon ;  the  bat  has  furled 
Its  flabby  wing  beneath  some  yew-tree  shade ; 

The  owl  is  silent  in  its  dark  retreat ; 
The  phantoms  of  the  restless  dead  are  laid, 

And  ouphes  and  fairies  stay  their  tiny  feet : 
Each  wandering  spirit  yields  it  to  the  spell, 
And  for  one  charmed  hour  the  world  sleeps  well. 

TWO. 

Down  sinks  the  moon,  and  up  the  tempest  rises, 

And  each  meets  each  on  the  horizon's  verge ; 
The  hurrying  darkness  the  late  moon  surprises, 

And  maddened  winds  the  moaning  forests  scourge. 
Lingers  the  red  moon  yet  a  little  longer, 

Her  thin  horns  piercing  through  the  sable  clouds, 
Then  disappears — when  louder  grown  and  stronger, 

The  tempest  shrieks,  and  bursting  through  its  shrouds 
Hurls  down  its  thunderbolts,  looses  its  lightning, 

Groans  through  the  woodlands,  and  howls  through  the  waves, 
Air-spirits  gladd'ning,  and  earth-spirits  fright'ning, 

Wildly  carousing  it  revels  and  raves. 

THREE. 

The  spirits  of  the  storm  have  spent  their  wrath, 

The  sea  but  murmurs,  and  the  forests  sigh ; 
The  clouds  are  folded  back,  and  the  bright  path 

That  the  stars  take  is  seen  upon  the  sky. 
So  almost  have  they  reached  their  nightly  goal ; 

And  not  far  hence  their  journey  will  be  done, 
And  they  have  passed  away  from  heaven's  scroll, 

Or  lost  themselves  in  the  absorbing  sun. 


102  THE    TWENTY-FOUR    HOURS. 


FOUR. 

Fewer  and  fainter  the  stars  grow,  and  dimmer, 

Darker,  and  bluer  the  sky  and  the  air ; 
Paler  each  moment,  till  hardly  a  glimmer 

Remains  of  the  starlight  that  erst  was  so  fair. 
But  the  edge  of  the  sky  in  the  east  is  assuming 

The  hue  of  the  heron's  wing  dappled  with  white ; 
Yet  growing  each  minute  more  golden  and  blooming, 

Till  at  last — yes  it  is — 'tis  Aurora's  own  light ! 
She  has  come,  and  a  thousand  soft  glories  attend  her, 
To  herald  the  sun  in  his  raiment  of  splendor. 

FIVE. 
The  last  bright  hue  is  spent  upon  the  sky, 

In  painting  morning's  gorgeous  blazonry ; 
And  lo  !  with  pennons  of  each  lovely  dye 

Flaunting  the  heavens,  and  crimson  drapery 
Floating  about  him,  like  a  king  of  old, 

Comes  the  day-monarch — the  all-glorious  Sun ! 
His  garb  of  light  girded  with  zone  of  gold, 

And  all  his  bright  and  kingly  vesture  on. 
The  flowers  of  earth  look  up  with  timid  bliss, 
And  deeper  blush  beneath  his  morning  kiss. 

six. 

The  thirsty  sun  is  drinking  up 
The  rain-dew  from  the  flower-cup  ; 
The  diamond  beads  on  leaf  and  stem, 
The  pearls  of  the  lily's  diadem, 
The  gem  that's  laid  in  the  star-flower's  breast, 
The  treasures  hid  'neath  the  rose's  vest, 
They  are  melting  away :  oh !  maiden,  wake  ! 
Ope  your  dreamy  eyes  for  this  beauty's  sake  ! 
Unclose  your  fragrant  lips,  whose  dye 
With  the  fairest  rose  of  morn  might  vie  ; 
Come  forth,  where  every  thing  is  fair, 
And  prove  yourself  the  loveliest  there. 


THE    TWENTY-FOUR    HOURS.  103 


SEVEN. 


Yet  looks  the  morning  fair  and  young, 

Yet  floats  the  rosehue  through  the  air, 
And  nameless  graces  yet  are  flung 

On  every  thing,  and  everywhere : 
The  grace  and  radiance  of  young  life, 

A  "joy  forever"  to  the  soul; 
A  joy  with  new  existence  rife, 

And  spring  and  fountain  of  the  whole. 
Youth  !  even  though  it  only  be 

The  morning  of  the  common  day, 
Yet  holds  a  spell  of  power,    which  we 

May  make  our  charm  against  decay. 


EIGHT. 


If  you  pass  along  the  street, 

You  shall  hear  the  sound  of  singing ; 
Patter  too  of  little  feet, 

On  the  sunny  pavement  ringing. 
'Tis  the  hour  of  morning  sport, 

Ere  the  bells  will  chime  for  school ; 
At  the  best  it  is  too  short — 

Harder  play  the  better  rule. 

Long  ago  the  laborer's  toil  began ; 

Long  ago  the  townsman  sought  his  task ; 
Long  ago  the  busy  artisan 

Whistled  to  his  work,  with  merry  mask : 
Now  we  see  what  toil  and  what  endeavor, 
Haunt  man's  footsteps  to  the  grave  forever. 

NINE. 

Now  the  lazy  urchin  lags  and  lingers 
In  the  shadow  of  the  wayside  trees  ; 

Tossing  pebbles  from  his  careless  fingers, 
While  his  curls  are  tossed  upon  the  breeze. 


104  THE    TWENTY-FOUR    HOURS. 

Comes  the  prudent  matron  close  behind  him, 

On  her  way  to  market,  shop,  or  call, 
Quite  surprised,  and  full  of  grief  to  find  him 

Playing  truant  by  the  garden  wall. 
Ah,  his  pace  from  thence  is  duly  quickened, 

To  the  crowded  school-room  he  must  come. 
Be  he  e'er  so  weary,  or  so  sickened, 

Of  its  tedious  tasks  and  ceaseless  hum. 
Soon  each  actor  to  the  part  decreed  him, 

In  the  drama  of  the  passing  day, 
Unresisting  hastens,  and  the  freedom 

That  he  sighs  for,  trafficks  for  his  pay. 
This,  because  our  life  was  made  for  labor, 

And  its  purpose  we  may  not  gainsay. 


The  street  is  now  almost  deserted, 

Save  here  and  there  a  straggling  form ; 

He  looking,  too,  quite  disconcerted, 
And  most  uncomfortably  warm. 

The  shadows  of  the  trees  have  shifted, 
And  taken  a  most  dwarfish  length : 

o        ' 

And  one  indeed  must  needs  be  gifted 
Who  cheats  the  sun  of  half  his  strength. 

o 

Ah,  ten  o'clock  in  midst  of  summer, 
Was  never  meant  for  promenade ; 

And  for  the  ignorant  presumer 

This  sage  remark  of  mine  was  made. 

ELEVEN. 

Not  much  has  the  sun  his  manners  amended, 

But  ardent  as  ever  smiles  down  on  us  still ; 
And  we  can  be  only  surprised  and  offended, 

While  he  scorches  or  melts  us  with  hearty  good-will. 
'Tis  the  way  of  some  people,  to  make  their  advances, 

Whether  welcome  or  hateful,  forever  the  same ; 
So  'tis  useless  to  take  any  heed  of  his  glances — 

In  good  time  he'll  leave  us,  unasked,  as  he  came. 


THE    TWENTY-FOUR    HOURS.  1Q5 


TWELVE. 

Ha,  ha ;  and  oh,  ho  ;  ding-dong,  and  pell-mell ! 

What  with  girls  and  with  boys  out  of  school,  and  the  bell, 

And  the  hurry  of  workmen  from  labor  set  free, 

And  the  meeting,  and  greeting,  'tis  a  great  jubilee  ! 

Now  lies  the  still,  bright  noon  upon  the  fields, 

When  the  green  leaves  hang  moveless  in  the  sun ; 
Even  the  clover  sweet  no  perfume  yields, 

And  every  fragrance  faints  beneath  the  noon. 
Yet  is  there  something  glorious  in  this  same 

Meridian  quiet,  as  if  pausing  here 
The  god  of  day  looked  back  the  way  he  came, 

And  proudly  mused  upon  his  high  career ; 
While  gathering  up  his  strength  to  take  again 
His  tireless  pilgrimage  o'er  heaven's  plain. 

Noon  in  the  country  !  you  can  hear  the  shrill 

Cries  of  the  cricket  in  the  parching  grass ; 
With  babble  of  some  almost  famished  rill, 

Inviting  you  to  tarry  ere  you  pass ; 
And  noisy  katy-did,  that  lies  perdue 

Beneath  some  broad  green  leaf  beside  the  way 
Striving  to  tempt  you  to  an  interview, 

And  make  you  ask  what  katy  did  that  day : 
The  little  stir  of  insect  life  alone, 
Breaking  the  lazy  silence  of  the  noon. 


ONE. 
Wends  the  lab'rer  to  his  toil  once  more ; 

Hies  the  care-bound  merchant  to  his  desk ; 
Turns  the  student  to  his  weary  lore ; 

Lags  the  dreading  urchin  to  his  task. 
Only  half  of  the  long  day  is  spent, 

Yet  you  languish  for  the  distant  close  ; 


106  THE    TWENTY-FOUR    HOURS. 

Foolish  mortal !  vain  your  discontent, 

Yain  your  weary  longing  for  repose ; 
Fill  the  day  with  works  your  hands  have  wrought ; 
Sweet  shall  be  the  rest  your  toil  has  brought. 

TWO. 

Vainly  are  we  told  we  may  not  slumber : 

The  tired  scholar  nods  above  his  book ; 
Little  weary  children  without  number 

Lie  asleep  in  every  curtained  nook ; 
Listless  belles,  fatigued  with  last  night's  trifling, 

On  soft  silken  sofas  idly  pine ; 
While  their  languid  thoughts  are  busy  rifling 

All  invention  for  some  new  design — 

o 

Some  new  fancy  for  a  glove  or  shoe-tie, 

Over  which  they  muse  awhile,  then  dream  ; 

Fancying  they  hear  some  rival's  beauty 
Lauded  by  the  beau  whom  all  esteem 

Quite  the  lion  of  the  latest  season — 

When  they're  rudely  wakened  by  the  treason  ! 

Many  a  graver  person,  I  am  thinking, 

Should  we  peep,  would  be  caught  napping  too ; 

'Tis  so  difficult  to  keep  from  winking, 
At  this  hour  in  summer,  as  you  know : 

Even  the  parson,  after  having  dinner, 
They  really  do  say,  snores  like  a  sinner. 

THREE. 
Now  comes  the  breeze  up  from  the  sea, 

And  dallies  with  the  elm-tree  boughs ; 
And  with  the  waving  willow  tree, 
Gracefully  and  capriciously, 

Coquettes,  and  sighs  its  hollow  vows. 
The  locust's  glancing  leaves  are  bright 

With  sheen  they've  stolen  from  the  sun ; 
And  rippling  back  from  shade  to  light, 
They  dance  now  to,  now  from  the  sight, 

Like  waves  that  stars  are  shinino1  on. 


THE    TWENTY-FOUR    HOURS.  107 


A  bright  face  eager  peers  between 

The  lattice  wreathed  with  flowering  vines, 
And  with  a  half-impatient  mien, 
Has  guessed  the  hours  that  intervene 

Before  some  joy  for  which  she  pines. 
The  belle  consults  with  Fahrenheit, 

And  lastly  with  her  mirror  true ; 
Then  steps  into  the  quiet  street, 
And  gracefully  her  tiny  feet 

Present  their  owner  to  the  view. 
And  ere  the  hour  has  passed  away, 

Full  many  a  form  of  "  fair  and  brave" — 
Full  many  a  knight,  and  lady  gay, 
In  quest  of  pleasure  or  display, 

Will  stalk  or  trip  along  the  pave. 

FOUR. 
School  is  closed,  and  shouts  of  laughter 

Set  the  sleepy  echoes  ringing ; 
Girlish  voices,  coming  after, 

Mix  with  sweet  and  childish  singing. 
Happy  hearts !  how  simple  blessings 

Make  of  joy  a  flowing  measure ! 
By  and  by,  more  dear  possessings 

Scarce  will  be  to  you  a  pleasure. 
By  and  by,  Time's  envious  finger 

Slyly  tilts  your  cup  of  gladness ! 
Ah,  long  may  the  sweetness  linger, 

Though  ye  lose  youth's  merry  madness : 
Laugh  and  shout — your  cheerful  voices 
Many  a  weary  ear  rejoices ! 

FIVE. 

Now  the  wealthy  townsman,  homeward  hieing, 
Clears  the  look  of  figures  from  his  brow  ; 

Walking  with  grand  dignity,  and  trying 
To  affect  an  easy  smile  and  bow — 


108  THE    TWENTY-FOUR    HOURS. 


Wishing  to  appear  not  too  much  laden 

With  the  wealth  for  which  in  youth  he  toiled ; 

Speaking  kindly  to  each  pretty  maiden, 

Stopping  to  caress  each  his  neighbor's  child — 

Letting  fall  some  little  drops  of  kindness, 

On  their  youthful  hearts  in  very  blindness. 

Pleasant  evening  hour !  when  households  gather 

All  their  treasures  round  the  ample  board ; 
Roguish  pet,  and  proud  and  sober  father, 

Handsome  brother,  by  the  belles  adored ; 
Gentle  sister,  like  a  lily -flower, 

Like  a  tall  white  lily  growing  there, 
Queen  of  all  the  rest  in  her  sweet  power — 

Reigning  by  her  beauty,  unaware  : 
Happy  hour !  and  happy  hearts,  that  meeting, 
Hear  and  give  love's  ever-gentle  greeting ! 

six. 
Faint  grow   the  shadows  that  flicker  and  waver, 

Of  the  leaves  of  the  vine  o'er  the  green  lattice  flung ; 
Cooler  the  sea-breeze,  and  sweeter  the  flavor 

Of  gardens,  whose  odors  are  newly  up-sprung. 
Gorgeous  clouds  in  the  Occident  floating — 

Rose-hue  and  purple,  and  crimson  and  gold — 
Radiant  "  arrows  of  sunset "  upshooting, 

Shine  round  the  banners  of  sunset  unrolled. 
Fair  was  the  sun  in  his  soft  morning  splendor ; 

Fair  in  his  brilliant  and  noon- day  array ; 
But  all  of  their  glory  conspired,  could  not  render 

His  presence  so  dazzlingiy,  gorgeously  gay ! 
Earth  thou  art  lovely  !  and  fair  thy  adorning, 

Loveliest  far  of  the  brides  of  the  sun ; 
Bright  are  the  gifts  he  bestoweth  each  morning — 

Glad  are  his  smiles  on  his  own  chosen  one. 

SEVEN. 
The  rosy  twilight  of  a  summer  eve — 

When,  changing  shadows  play  along  the  sky, 


THE    TWENTY-FOUR    HOURS. 


With  remnants  which  the  sunset  glories  leave, 

Woven  with  fancies  of  a  duskier  dye. 
The  fair  soft  twilight,  when  the  maiden  steals 

To  the  deep  shadow  of  some  garden  tree  ; 
And  to  the  silence  her  young  heart  reveals, 

Breathing  her  dreams  in  pleasant  reverie. 
The  tender  twilight,  when  the  soul  yields  up 

Its  love  and  SAveetness  like  a  rich  perfume, 
Filling  with  tenderness  —  as  fills  the  cup 

Of  the  night-flowers  with  dew  drawn  from  their  bloom. 
The  twilight  hour,  that  stores  the  poet's  heart 

With  fine  conceptions  of  all  loveliness  ; 
That  stirs  him  with  a  love  from  day  apart, 

Full  of  high  spiritual  thought  and  holiness. 

EIGHT. 
At  length  the  twilight  fades  away, 

And  the  warm  hues  are  slowly  blent 
With  deepening  evening  ;  and  the  play 

Of  shadows  in  the  orient 
Has  ceased,  and  stars  have  come  instead  ; 

And  over  all  the  robe  of  night 
Like  a  rich-jeweled  manta's  spread  — 

So  beautifully  soft  and  bright. 
Now  seeks  the  lover  his  young  bride, 

And  with  her  gazes  on  the  sky  ; 
Yet,  standing  by  her  beating  side, 

Sees  more  stars  in  her  moist  clear  eye  ; 
And  sweeter  light  on  her  pure  face 

Than  in  the  half-orbed  silver  moon  ; 
And  in  her  twining  arms  more  grace 

Than  in  the  white-rose  branch  of  June. 
The  bliss  of  young  love's  rosy  dream 

Beneath  the  summer  evening  skies, 
Ah,  what  could  purchase  ?     Not  a  gleam 

Of  the  much  fabled  Paradise  — 
Nor  promise  of  an  Indian  isle, 
Where  ever-constant  summers  smile  ! 
10 


110  THE    TWENTY-FOUR    HOURS. 


NINE. 

New  beauty  adds  itself  unto  the  night 

Sweet  music  sighs  on  every  wave  of  air ; 
The  heavens  are  growing  more  intensely  bright, 

And  the  clear  atmosphere  more  purely  fair. 
The  weary  student  throws  his  book  aside — 

The  night  is  all  too  glorious  to  be  spent 
In  gaining  wisdom  from  the  musty  guide 

O'er  which  his  cramped  and  toilsome  mind  has  bent. 
He  must  go  forth — all  others  have  gone  forth — 

To  learn  a  lesson  from  heaven's  shining  page  ; 
One  hour  of  its  bright  teaching  must  be  worth 

The  soulless  study  of  a  tedious  age. 
The  sound  of  voices,  and  the  fitful  sigh 

Among  the  branches  of  the  "  low  south  wind," 
And  the  calm,  radiant  beauty  of  the  sky, 

Have  a  rare  charm  to  his  o'er- toiling  mind  ; 
And  he  will  wander  out,  and  wander  on, 

Forgetful  of  his  books,  himself,  the  world— 
So  has  his  spirit  into  ether  flown, 

When  in  free  air  her  unbound  wings  unfurled. 
When  the  gay  groups  of  idlers  all  are  gone, 
He  with  the  grand,  fair  night  will  be  alone. 


The  faltering  farewell  has  been  said, 

The  lover  from  his  love  has  parted ; 
And  listening  to  his  distant  tread, 

She  dreams,  half  happy,  half  sad-hearted, 
Then  sighing  seeks  her  silent  room, 

And  slowly,  with  her  faint  white  fingers, 
Robs  her  long  tresses  of  the  bloom 

Of  pale  sweet  flowers — yet  musing  lingers, 
For  he,  ere  yet  he  breathed  adieu, 

Had  twined  his  fingers  with  a  tress, 
And  praised  its  wavy  length  anew, 

And  begged  it  for  its  loveliness. 


THE    TWENTY-FOUR    HOUES. 


Ill 


Her  very  self  becomes  more  dear, 

That  she  is  fair  and  dear  to  him ; 
And  musing  thus,  a  single  tear 

Falls  from  her  eye,  and  breaks  her  dream. 
She  starts,  and  putting  back  the  curls 

From  her  pure  forehead,  smiles  for  shame  ; 
From  her  white  throat  untwines  the  pearls, 

And  gazing  on  them,  breathes  his  name. 
At  length,  in  snowy  robe,  she  kneels, 

And  asks  of  Heaven  to  bless  her  love  ; 
And  to  forgive,  if  what  she  feels 

Be  not  what  angels  feel  above : 
Then  rising  seeks  her  couch,  to  sleep 
Her  happy  slumbers,  soft  and  deep. 

ELEVEN. 
The  soft  air  is  so  full  of  light,  downflowing 

From  all  the  lamps  above,  that  like  a  stream 
Escaped  of  heaven's  radiance,  the  glowing 

And  sweetly  blended  rays  together  gleam. 
A  kind  of  listening  presence,  too,  seems  gliding 

Over  and  through  the  earth,  that  piercing  pries 
Into  each  quiet  nook,  and  seeks  the  hiding 

Secrets  of  all  men  out,  with  curious  eyes. 
Between  the  window-bars  of  beauty's  chamber, 

It  enters  on  the  sweetly  perfumed  air ; 
Touching  the  fringes  of  her  eyes  with  amber, 

And  weaving  pale  gold  threads  with  her  soft  hair 
Lying  upon  her  lips,  it  hears  and  numbers 

The  times  she  murmurs  in  her  pensive  sleep ; 
And  learns  the  name  but  uttered  in  her  slumbers, 

And  steals  the  tear,  if  in  her  dream  she  weep. 
It  floats  abroad,  through  every  crevice  darting ; 

Among  the  dense  black  shadows  stealing  in ; 
And  if  the  breeze,  in  fitful  play  upstarting, 

Parts  but  a  shade-tree  bough,  it  shoots  between. 
The  conscious  air  with  viewless  life  is  panting ; 

Mysterious  eyes  seek  nameless  mysteries  out ; 


112  VISION    OF    THE    POOR. 


Spirits  of  elfin  power  the  earth  are  haunting, 

Silently  joining  in  the  fairy  bout : 
The  hour  of  ban  and  spell  will  soon  be  here ; 
Closed  be  each  mortal  eye  and  mortal  ear. 


TWELVE. 


The  solemn  glory  of  the  midnight  rests 

Upon  the  mountain  tops  ;  the  golden  light, 
Grown  silvery,  and  intensely  pure,  invests 

The  earth  with  beauty,  strangely,  grandly  bright. 
A  touch,  as  out  of  heaven,  falls  upon 

The  key-notes  of  the  spirit,  pressing  out 
A  hymn  of  awe  and  sweetness  !  as  if  one, 

An  angel  hidden  in  the  soul,  should  shout, 
"  Oh,  beautiful !  that  sittest  on  the  throne 

Of  midnight  in  the  heaven,  I  worship  thee !" 
And  the  pure  spiritual  in  man  mounts  up, 

Yet  with  an  humble  reverence,  solemnly  ; 
Expanding  and  increasing  in  its  scope. 

The  lone,  pure,  queenly  midnight,  that  enshrines 
God,  and  the  angels  in  the  earthly  soul ; 

Midnight  the  glorious — how  fair  she  shines, 
Writing  with  jewels  on  night's  dark  blue  scroll. 


VISION  OF  THE  POOR. 

"  I  HAD  a  dream  that  was  not  all  a  dream" — 

I  saw  the  Poor,  the  sad  and  struggling  Poor, 
Buffeting  with  the  waves  of  Life's  dark  stream, 

And  anon  sinking  to  rise  nevermore. 
I  saw  all  forms  of  suffering  that  come 

From  the  unequal  fortunes  of  the  world  ; 
I  saw  the  Book  of  Death  all  writ  with  doom, 

And  saw  the  victims  to  their  destinies  hurled. 


VISION    OF    THE    POOR. 


Theirs  is  a  woful  fate  ;  God  help  the  Poor  ! 

Their  hands  are  fettered,  and  their  hearts  are  faint ; 
Gaunt  Famine  and  grim  Death  stand  at  their  door, 

Yet  Mercy  hears  not  their  weak  lips'  complaint. 
It  is  their  lot  to  starve,  their  doom  to  die 

Unhelped,  unwatched,  unwept — let  them  not  groan ! 
No  pitying  ear  is  open  to  their  cry ; 

And  mute,  stern,  prayerless,  they  die  alone. 

Want  has  no  form  of  sorrow  I  saw  not : 

From  the  meek  wretch  who  uncomplaining  dies, 
Leaving  his  tombless  bones  to  mark  the  spot, 

To  him  whom  want  makes  mad,  and  who  defies 
Lawgivers  and  the  law  to  bind  7m  head 

To  perish  in  the  dust,  but  with  a  stroke 
Of  his  offending  arm  obtains  his  bread, 

And  bursts  his  chain,  and  tramples  on  his  yoke ; 

From  the  soft  child,  new-born,  whose  little  wail, 

Ere  it  too  perished,  was  the  only  grief 
The  world  vouchsafed  to  her  who,  faint  and  frail, 

Had  agonized  and  died  without  relief, 
To  the  old  man  on  whom  the  numbing  snows 

Of  winter  and  of  age  were  falling  cold, 
When  one  fierce  night  Death  added  up  his  woes, 

And  all  the  old  man's  years  and  griefs  were  told ; 

From  the  strong,  breaking  heart  of  honest  pride,* 

To  the  mean,  willing  suppliant  for  bread, 
I  saw  Want's  victims  through  my  slumber  glide, 

And  heard  the  rustle  of  Death's  wings  outspread, 
'Till  gradually,  as  a  cloud  doth  change, 

A  change  came  o'er  the  creatures  of  my  dream, 
And  wild,  fantastic  shapes,  grotesque  and  strange, 

Made  the  dark  vapor  of  my  vision  teem. 

They  were  all  shades  of  those  who  died  of  want, 
By  thousands  risen  from  their  nameless  graves, 


VISION    OF   THE    POOR. 


Each  phantom  with  the  whimsey  to  recount 
How  he  on  earth  was  one  of  Fortune's  slaves. 

As  in  one  grand  kaleidoscope  they  passed, 
I  saw  all  ranks  of  form  and  intellect, 

And  noble  men  among  the  meanest  classed, 
Compelled  by  sorrow  to  appear  abject: 

The  scholar  with  his  proud,  pale,  thoughtful  brow, 

The  poet  with  his  bright  but  sunken  eye ; 
Artist  and  statesman— each  told  why  and  how 

Among  the  unhonored  dead  he  came  to  lie. 
Strange  were  the  tales  these  phantom  beings  told 

Of  lives  worn  out  in  struggles  against  fate, 
Pining  for  that  whose  paltry  price  was  gold — 

Yet  Gold  held  destiny  subordinate ; 

A  proud,  stern  man,  with  face  of  manhood's  prime, 

Whose  hair  was  silvered  in  a  single  night, 
Had  seen  his  treasures  in  one  hour  of  time 

Taken  forever  from  his  doating  sight — 
Wife,  children,  riches— and  his  heart  gave  way — 

That  high,  brave  heart,  that  erst  had  been  so  strong, 
And  had  endured  so  much !     It  could  not  stay 

This  last  great  agony,  and  broke  ere  long ; 

He  had  been  poor  in  youth,  and  pace  by  pace 

Had  toiled  his  way  along  the  steep  ascent, 
Till  he  had  won  of  men  an  honored  place, 

And  love  and  wealth  were  with  his  laurels  blent. 
Oft  had  his  spirit  fainted— still  he  turned 

His  eye  upon  the  goal  he  strove  to  gain, 
Till  that  for  which  his  ardent  soul  so  burned, 

And  more  was  won,  and  yet  it  was  in  vain ; 

And  one— a  student  with  a  pale,  clear  face, 

Through  which  the  soul  within  shone  like  a  light, 

And  on  whose  brow  yet  lingered  many  a  trace 
Of  passionate  struggle  with  the  spoiler's  mignt— 


VISION    OF    THE    POOR. 


115 


Had  faltered  in  the  race,  and  sunk  and  died 
Unblest  in  his  dim  garret  by  a  prayer ; 

Not  even  a  friend  to  stand  his  bed  beside, 

And  wipe  his  brow,  or  straighten  his  dank  hair ; 

Frail,  delicate  girls,  upon  whose  cheeks  of  snow 

The  bright  red  hectic  of  consumption  burned 
In  strange  delusive  beauty,  while  the  flow 

Of  life  grew  fainter  as  each  day  returned ; 
Each  weary  day  of  ceaseless  toil  and  care, 

And  strife  for  bread  that  was  to  eke  out  time ; 
Oh !  the  black  darkness  of  their  sick  despair 

Shook  each  pale  ghost  like  memory  of  a  crime ! 

And  men  whose  lives  were  spent  in  night-black  mines, 

Who  hardly  knew  the  earth  was  fair  or  bright, 
Who  hardly  saw  the  heaven  that  o'er  it  shines, 

Or  bathed  their  haggard  faces  in  its  light ; 
And  those  who  searched  the  ocean's  deep  for  gems, 

Or  dragged  the  rivers  for  their  bedded  gold, 
To  garnish  thrones  and  brighten  diadems, 

Yet  wanted  food,  and  covering  from  the  cold ; 

And  those  who  lived  beneath  the  rich  man's  eye 

In  fated  Ireland,  and  yet  were  not  deemed 
Worth  the  cold  charity  that  let  them  die, 

Until  with  dead  the  common  highways  teemed ; 
And  England's  million  slaves  who,  toiling,  weave 

Their  very  bones  and  nerves  and  heart-strings  in 
The  delicate  fabrics  that  they,  dying,  leave 

As  monuments  alone  that  they  have  been ; 

And  the  poor  wretches,  basking  in  the  sun 

Of  fair  Italia's  despot-governed  soil, 
Begging  a  pittance  mean  from  every  one, 

Or  taking  lawlessly  the  easiest  spoil ; 


116  VISION    OF    THE    POOR. 

And  proud,  brave  Poland's  broken-hearted  sons, 
Whose  lives  were  wasted  on  a  foreign  shore, 

In  exile,  bitterness,  and  want,  that  shuns 
To  be  confessed,  since  man  the  burden  bore. 

And  there  were  those  whose  lives  of  crime  and  shame 

Began  in  want  and  ended  in  despair ; 
Wild,  fierce,  half-demon  creatures,  whom  to  name 

Made  the  world  shudder,  crouching  in  their  lair; 
Hunted  and  hated,  dreaded  and  reviled, 

Outlawed  and  outcast  from  the  face  of  earth, 
From  friendship  and  from  sympathy  exiled, 

Dreading  their  death,  and  cursing  more  their  birth. 

From  motley  groups  of  women,  many  came 

Who  told  the  story  of  their  lives  with  tears ; 
And  many  covered  up  their  brows  for  shame, 

Shunning  the  mem'ry  of  false  virtue's  sneers. 
These  clenched  their  hands  as  if  the  tale  awoke 

In  their  imperfect  minds  a  sense  of  wrong, 
Forcing  their  words  as  if  they  feared  to  choke 

With  the  emotions  they  dared  not  prolong. 

Of  all  I  saw  these  made  my  heart  most  sore, 

So  irretrievable  and  dark  their  doom, 
So  much  existence  gave  them  to  deplore, 

And  left  for  light  and  hope  so  little  room. 
But  the  whole  scene  was  sad  enough,  God  knows ! 

Though  mixed  with  fancies  foreign  and  grotesque ; 
And  deep  enough  and  true  enough  its  woes, 

Even  relieved  with  something  of  burlesque. 

All,  all  had  suffered ;  every  wretched  heart 

Had  throbbed  with  agony,  and  broke,  or  changed ; 

Had  borne  for  virtue's  sake  oppression's  smart, 
And  struggling  died,  or  lived  to  be  estranged, 


CROZAT  S    DAUGHTER. 


117 


Sorrow  and  want  and  scorn  had  been  the  gifts 
Existence  brought ;  a  weary,  galling  weight, 

That  Death  had  rid  them  of— kind  Death,  who  lifts 
The  poor  man's  burden  when  it  is  too  late. 

Alas !  man's  chanty  is  oft  like  Death's  : 

It  comes  when  all  is  past  that  can  be  borne, 
And  to  our  dying  senses  then  bequeaths 

What  might  have  saved  our  hearts,  ere  so  much  torn. 
None  learn  but  those  who  suffer,  what  it  is 

To  bear  with  hope  deferred,  to  watch  and  wait, 
And  hang  for  days,  weeks,  months  upon  the  abyss 

Of  hopeless,  ruinous,  unrelenting  fate. 

My  dream,  thank  Heaven !  is  past ;  but  I  have  seen 

More  than  its  counterpart  with  waking  eyes ; 
And  many  a  mournful  truth  the  heart  may  glean, 

That  feels  and  thinks,  which  often  haply  lies 
Too  deep  for  careless  and  unheeding  sight ; 

Yet  undisguised,  would  harrow  up  a  woe, 
And  show  that  drops  are  shed  from  rocks  we  smite, 

More  bitter  than  at  Marah's  fount  did  flow 


CROZAT'S  DAUGHTER. 
[DEDICATED  TO   CHARLES  GAYARRE.] 

OH  !  she  lies  in  queenly  bower,  and  her  couch  is  soft  and  silken, 
And  her  maidens  stand  around  her  grouped  to  wait  her  slightest 
word ; 

Oh !  she  lies  like  any  princess  upon  perfumed  mattress,  milken- 
White,  of  'broidered  silks  of  India  looms,  the  fairest  e'er  preferred. 


CROZAT'S  DAUGHTER. 


Oh,  right  regally  and  daintily  the  lady's  bower  is  furnished, 

And  right  faithfully  and  watchfully  the  lady's  self  is  tended ; 
But  God  help  her!  what  cares  she  how  her  bower  is  kept  and 

garnished, 

Or  what  sees  she  that  her  maidens  stand  with  eyes  upon  her 
bended  ° 

Heard  she  not,  or  did  she  dream  it,  in  swoon  she  so  long  lay  in,  ^ 
That   the  young   Duke    Louis   Gascon  was   betrothed  by  his 
mother  ? 

Ah,  she  knows   not— and  she  dares  not  ask  even   her  favorite 

maiden, 
For  her  sacred  secret  never  shall  be  given  to  another. 

So  she  closeth  her  faint  eyelids  and  shuts  in  the  painful  vision- 
Shuts  it  in  her  inmost  soul  of  souls,  and  hides  it  there  alone ; 

Shrinking  fearfully  and  full  of  shame  from  her  own  pride's  derision, 
And  enduring  all  the  agony  she  striveth  to  disown. 

Oh!  you  should  have  seen  the  struggle!  why,  her  face  looked 

harder,  whiter 

Than  a  block  of  sculptured  marble— and  as  motionless  it  was! 
And  her  hands,  save  that  they  seemed  to  strain  and  clasp  each 

other  tighter, 
Had  the  frozen  and  the  stony  look  by  which  death's  seeming 


awes. 


So  not  even  the  raiment  rustled  o'er  the  penthouse  of  her  sighing — 
O'er  the  bosom  that  was  holding  such  a  boundless  world  of  woe ; 

So  she  looked  as  though  a  statue— a  rare  statue— had  been  lying 
In  her  place,  to  cheat  the  lookers  on,  her  life  made  such  small 
show. 

And  that  only  the  dark  lashes  on  her  cheek  were  black  as  ever, 
And  the  tresses,  lying  blackly  on  the  pillow,  just  the  same, 

You  would  think  the  mould  of  beauty  on  the  silken  couch  had 

never 
Smiled  a  smile,  or  sighed  a  sorrow,  or  had  borne  a  living  name. 


CROZAT'S  DAUGHTER.  119 

Thus  she  lay,  so  fair  and  rigid,  with  her  maidens  weeping  round 

her — 

Thus  she  lay,  so  still  and  pallid,  when  a  low,  appalling  cry, 
Such  as  men  have  seldom  uttered,  broke  in  part  the  spell  that 

bound  her, 
And  a  father's  sorrow  won  from  her  an  audible,  faint  sigh. 

"Oh,   my  daughter!"    cried  the  father;    "oh,  my  darling— my 

Lorenzia ! 
Who  hath  slain  thee  ?    What  hath  harmed  thee  ?    Ah,  that  thou 

shouldst  die  and  leave  me !" 
Then  a  few  slow  tears  came  stealing  down  his  cheeks  and  cooled 

his  phrensy ; 
Still  he  whispered  'twixt  his  anguish,  "  Grave  restore  her,  or 

receive  me ;" 
Till  his  sorrow  seemed  to  give  her  strength,  and  she  looked  up, 

essaying 
Such  a  faint,  slow,  sad,  and  flickering  smile,  more  touching  than 

mere  pain, 
That  her  father's  heart  was  broken  yet  once  more,  and  without 

staying, 
All  the  fountains  of  his  tears  run  o'er  in  hot  and  sudden  rain. 

Yet  he  wept  not  long — 'twas  not  his  mood — his  was  a  different 

mould  ; 

And  this  the  only  spell  by  which  his  soul  could  e'er  be  shaken ; 
For  to  all  besides  his  daughter  was  his  bearing  proud  and  cold, 

And  men  knew  no  other  theme  his  softness  could  awaken. 
So  all  calmly  soon  he  turned  him  to  the  maidens  round  him  waiting, 
And  inquired  of  them  still  calmly  how  their  mistress  had  come 

ill; 
And  they  then — the  favorite  foremost — quick  began  the  tale  by 

stating, 
Between  sobs  and  lamentations  she  had  not  the  power  to  still, 

That  as  she  was  gayly  chatting,  at  her  mistress'  feet  reclining, 
Stringing  pearls  to  braid  that  evening  in  the  tresses  of  her  hair, 

She  bethought  her  of  a  rumor  of  the  duke,  which  she  divining 
Would  engage  her  mistress'  hearing— being  always  well  aware 


120 


How  they  fondly  loved  each  other  as  a  sister  and  a  brother — 
And  the  rumor  was,  that  Louis  was  betrothed  the  day  before 

To  a  very  lovely  lady,  chosen  for  him  by  his  mother : 

Here,  she  said,  "  down  dropped  her  mistress,  and  lay  prone  upon 
the  floor." 

Then  she  went  on  to  say  further,  how  they  raised  her  up,  and  laid 

her 
On  her  couch,  and  summoned  leeches,  and  how  long  she  lay  in 

swoon  ; 
And  how,  when  they  found  her  living,  the  physician's  potion  made 

her 

To  lie  in  a  deathlike  stupor  since  before  the  stroke  of  noon. 
But  enough  had  now  been  told  him,  and  he  turned  and  bent  once 

lowly 
O'er   the  pillow   of  his  darling,  till  his  lips  had  touched  her 

brow  ; 

Then  went  straightway  out  in  silence,  looking  grave  and  treading 
slowly : 

ii_l_ljl_ip  /~*        i  i  • 


On  that  moment  he  had  taken  before  God  a  solemn  vow ! 


On  that  same  night,  by  the  river,  a  young  noble  walked  in  sorrow, 

Cursing  bitterly  the  destiny  for  which  he  had  been  born; 
Cursing,  too,  the  young  Duke  Gascon,  who,  before  the  world,  to 
morrow 

Would  espouse,  in  first  betrothal,  the  sweet  Countess  Delaimorn. 
His  beloved — his  own  heart's  idol — she  whose  soul,  so  true  and 

tender, 

Long  ago  to  him  was  given — they  would  sell  her  hand  for  gold  ! 
Oh !  he  cursed  the  wretched  barter !  and  swore  wildly  to  defend 

her 

With  his  good  sword  at  the  altar — but  he  would  not  see  her 
sold! 

Thus  he  raved,  upbraiding  Heaven — and  his  ancestors  upbraiding, 
That  the  scion  of  their  princely  house  was  heir  of  wealth  so 
mean ; 

That  he — a  duke,  too — must  endure  a  grievance  so  degrading 
As  that  an  equal  should  intrude  he  and  his  love  between. 


CROZAT'S  DAUGHTER. 


121 


Thus  he  fretted  his  soul  vainly,  on  the  rocks  of  hard  misfortune — 
Thus  he  lashed  his  foaming  spirit,  till  it  seethed  like  any  sea ; 

Till  one  treading  soft  behind  him,  gently  spoke,  "  Let  me  impor 
tune 
You,  sir  duke,  to  speak  more  calmly,  and  with  some  less  energy." 

"  Ha !  a  listener !  who  are  you,  sir,  that  have  dared  to  track  me 
hither, 

Or  presumed  to  give  me  counsel  as  to  what  way  I  should  speak  ?" 
"  You  have  misconstrued  my  manner,  sir,"  the  stranger  said,  "  and 
neither 

Can  I  tell  you  my  name  or  title ;  but  your  audience  I  seek, 
On  a  matter  of  some  moment  to  us  both — to  you  more  truly — 

And  I  pray  you  do  not  check  me  by  a  word  till  I  have  done ; 
For  my  time  is  very  precious,  and  I  have  arrived  but  newly, 

And  must  be  upon  my  homeward  way  before  to-morrow  sun. 

"  Here's  a  debt  I  owed  your  father — sums  extorted  in  the  trouble 

Of  the  civil  wars  that  ruined  many  a  house  of  noble  blood  ; 
Here,  I  make  you  restitution ;  it  were  well  if  it  were  double. 

As  it  is,  there  are  some  millions ;  may  they  do  you  service  good !" 
Then  the  gold  he  paid  down  quickly,  while  his  auditor  stood  gazing, 

Like  one  spellbound,  on  this  magic  wealth,  and  on  this  strange 

magician — 
Gazing  eagerly,  yet  deeming  that  the  princely  jewels  blazing 

In  his  grasp  were  but  a  dream,  and  not  his  wishes'  full  fruition. 


So  before  his  thanks  were  uttered,  or  his  stupor  wholly  banished, 

In  such  silence  as  he  came  to  him  the  stranger  hurried  thence, 
And  the  noble's  grateful  blessing  was  not  spoken  ere  had  vanished 

Every  trace  of  how  his  sudden  wealth  had  come,  or  even  whence. 
"  Oh  !  my  brain,  if  you  have  mocked  me — oh  !  my  soul,  if  you  are 
dreaming — 

Never  let  me  waken,  Heaven !  let  the  happy  madness  last ; 
Let  my  glittering  fancies  fool  me,  for  I  swear  this  present  seeming 

Is  a  glory  and  a  triumph  to  the  anguish  of  the  past !" 
11 


122  CROZAT-S    DAUGHTER. 


Some  hours  later  on  that  evening,  Crozat  sat  beside  the  pillow 

Of  his  child,  now  deeply  sleeping  in  her  beauty,  still  and  pale ; 
But  his  features  were  grown  softer — there  was  oil  upon  the  billow, 

And  a  fiat  had  gone  forth  to  still  the  fury  of  the  gale. 
He  had  saved  a  fragile  vessel,  with  its  fine  and  costly  burden, 

And  he  hoped  in  time  to  trust  her  freight  again  upon  the  sea; 
And  what  matter  that  it  cost  him  dear  !  her  safety  was  the  guerdon 

He  had  asked,  and  all  he  cared  for ;  and  the  purchase  had  been 
free. 

But  the  stain  upon  his  conscience  not  the  end  attained  could  alter ; 

In  the  price  he  purposed  giving  was  his  honor  not  included ; 
From  the  truth  he  would  not  vary— in  the  right  he  could  not 

falter, 

And  the  bidding  of  his  manly  soul  was  not  to  be  eluded. 
And  still,  not  quite  the  time  had  come  for  priest  or  for  confession, 

And  until  it  came,  his  life  of  lives  hung  by  a  single  hair — 
His  daughter's  life,  more  dear  than  his— oh,  dear  beyond  expres 
sion; 

For  the  world,  with  all  its  treasures,  with  his  one  could  not  com 
pare. 

Thus,  with  love  and  pride  at  warfare— with  his  noble  soul  attainted 

Of  a  treason  'gainst  the  son  of  him  who  was  his  earliest  friend — 

Mused  the  merchant-noble,  on  whose  mind  one  only  scene  was 

painted, 
And  that  scene  his  daughter's  death,  which  he  was  striving  to 

forefend. 
So  no  sleep  came  to  his  eyelids— through  the  long  night  slowly 

pacing 
O'er  and  o'er  the  velvet  carpet,  watched  he  how  his  darling 

rested ; 
Watched  her  breath,  and  watched  her  pulses,  and  the  shadows 

that  kept  chasing 

Through  her  soul,  disturbed  by  visions  on  her  changing  face 
attested. 


CROZAT'S  DAUGHTER.  123 


But  the  morning  brought  requital ;  it  was  whispered  in  the  palace 
That  Duke  Gascon  had  been  slighted  by  the  Countess  Delai- 

morn ; 
And  though   some  refused  it   credence,  saying  'twas   a  tale  of 

malice, 
One,  who  kept  the  secret,  knew  full  well  the  meaning  of  her 

scorn. 
Oh !  he  blessed   the  power  of  gold,  that  buys  the  miser's  late 

relenting ; 

Oh !  he  praised  the  good  king  Mammon  that  he  had  such  wor 
thy  slaves ; 

Oh !  he  thanked  the  Countess  Delaimorn  for  her  so  firm  dissent 
ing — 

And  he  prayed,  "  Heaven  send  the  rival  duke  the  triumph  that 
he  craves." 


And  his  prayer  was  answered,  truly  !  for  a  week  had  but  departed 

Ere  the  lily-handed  Delaimorn  took  other  rank  and  name ; 
And  the  young  Duke  Louis  Gascon  hardly  seemed  the  less  light- 
hearted 

That  he  had  been  made  the  loser  in  this  sort  of  high-bred  game. 
And  the   Crozat's  drooping  flower — oh,  she    tried   to    smile   so 

brightly, 

And  to  speak  so  gay,  while  secretly  her  heart  was  slowly  break 
ing  ; 
But  the  father's  eye  was  faithful,  and  he  guessed  her  Jrouble 

rightly — 

And  he  swore  again  the  solemn  vow  which  there  was  no  for 
saking  ! 


Crozat  stood  before  the  duchess — his  confession  said  and  ended — 
All  the  wrong  which  he  had  done  her  in  the  well-contrived 
frustration 

Of  the  marriage  of  Duke  Louis,  with  his  daughter's  story  blended, 
And  he  waited  for  her  answer  in  unwonted  trepidation ; 


124 

For  his  heart  could  not  but  quail  to  think  the  answer  that  might 

follow, 
And  his  father's  love  could  not  but  hope  she  would  accept  his 

offer— 

For  who  that  longs  with  all  his  soul  believes  his  hopes  are  hollow  ? 
Or  who  that  thought  to  be  refused,  his  daughter's  hand  would 
proffer? 

Listen,  Crozat !  for  she  speaketh,  and  her  voice  is  the  completeness 

Of  all  softness  and  smooth  accent,  all  delightful  modulation  ; 
And  your  doom,  though  she  should  doom  you,  being  spoken  in 

such  sweetness, 

Would  be  soothed  of  half  its  sorrow  by  this  honeyed  intonation. 
Oh,  the  bitterness  of  scorn  concealed  !  it  stingeth  like  an  adder; 
Oh !  the  canker  of  a  wound  that's  hid  beneath  the  balm  of 

flowers ! 
Why,  the  very  choice  she  took  of  words  but  made  his  soul  the 

madder, 

And  the  agony  of  her  mild  speech  taxed  all  his  manliest  pow 
ers. 

"  I   forgive   you,"    spoke   the   duchess ;    "  I  forgive   you,   noble 
Crozat, 

Knowing  the  feelings  which  a  parent  entertaineth  for  his  child, 
And  commend  them ;  and  doubt  not  but  your  motives  have  been 
those  that 

In  a  court  of  the  affections  would  be  legal ;"  here  she  smiled. 
"  And  as  I  have  bred  Lorenzia  up,  and  loved  her  as  a  daughter, 

So  I  still  do  think  the  child  my  own  to  cherish  and  to  love ; 
And  for  beauty  and  for  sweetness  have  I  truly  ever  thought  her 

Incomparable,  though  less  like  earth  than  like  saints  above. 

"But,  friend  Crozat,  with  our  race  is  blent  no  blood  except  the 

highest ; 

Every  branch,  for  age  on  age,  has  been  nobly  sprung  and  grafted, 
Never  losing  aught  of  royalty,  but  ever  keeping  nighest 

To  the  throne,  and  to  the  scepter,  which  indeed  our  uncles 
wafted. 


125 


In  the  histories  of  nations  will  you  find  our  names  recorded, 
Going  back  in  kingly  pedigree,  a  proud,  distinguished  race ; 

To  whose  faithful  aristocracy  this  honor  was  awarded, 

To  be  first  in  glory,  first  in  fame,  and  first  in  wealth  and  place. 

"  Not  that  I  would  say  our  blood  in  aught  is  different  from  your 
own, 

Or  that  a  peasant's  son  may  not  be  nobler  that  a  king's ;       334 
For  virtue  makes  the  serf  a  king,'  and  vice  degrades  a  throne ; 

Yet  there  is  a  certain  pride  of  power  a  use  of  power  brings ; 
Nor  that  we  are  happy — for  such  cares  on  our  position  wait, 

We  have  no  choice  where  hearts  are  played,  and  only  play  our 

hands ; 
We  are  not  born  to  happiness,  but  only  to  be  great, 

And  on  our  greatness'  highest  point  our  altar  of  hope  stands. 

"  If  I  chose  to  have  my  son  forsake  his  birthright  and  his  duty 

(For  it  is  his  duty  now  to  keep  our  princely  fame  unspotted), 
And  give  his  soul,  like  other  men,  to  worship  of  mere  beauty, 

Your  daughter  surely  were  the  one  of  all  the  world  allotted. 
But  he  must  wed  with  one  whose  name  will  live  like  ours  in  story, 

Who  can  confer,  as  he  confers,  a  world-wide  reputation ; 
Whose  family  mark  history's  page  with  deeds  of  fadeless  glory, 

And  who  control,  as  we  have  done,  the  interests  of  a  nation. 

"  Yet,  if  " — and  here  she  smiled  again,  as  if  her  fancy  needed 

Excuse  for  being  so  wild  a  one — "yet  if,  like  the  Medici, 
You  had  so  risen,  by  giant  strides,  that  princes  had  conceded 

Your  right  to  rule  among  their  powers,  truly  I  might  say  this,  I 
No  longer,  seeing  your  daughter's  love,  could  hold  your  suit  as 

'idle; 
Yet  think  that  now  'twere  far  more  wise  to  check  this  bud  of 

feeling, 

And  by  all  gentle  arts  and  means  its  froward  strength  to  bridle- 
Believing  that  these  now  fresh  wounds  will  soon  be  safely  heal 
ing." 


126  CROZAT'S  DAUGHTER. 

Then  rising  up  with  stately  grace,  she  friendlily  extended 

Her  jeweled  hand,  which  Crozat  kissed,  and  silently  departed. 
But  oh !  the  war  of  thoughts  that  in  his  wounded  soul  contended, 

And  oh,  the  wild,  wild  hopes  that  then  into  existence  started  ! 
Did  she  not  say,  if  he  had  won  a  kingly  place  and  power? 

And  could  he  not,  and  would  he  not  ?    Ah,  in  that  western  world, 
So  boundless  and  so  glorious,  should  be  his  daughter's  dower : 

And  kingdoms,  crowns,  and  scepters  through  his  princely  visions 
whirled. 

A  name  on  the  historic  page !  oh,  would  not  nations  tell  it, 

That  he,  a  peasant,  had  arisen  to  rule  with  highborn  kings  ? 
And  will  not  France  take  up  the  theme,  and  be  most  proud  to 
swell  it, 

When  he,  her  regent,  to  her  arms  such  fair  possessions  brings  ? 
"It  shall  be  done!"  he  swore  the  oath  deep  in  his  inmost  heart: 

"  A  prince  I'll  be,  o'er  such  a  wide  and  beautiful  domain, 
That  France  shall  be  but  as  a  speck,  a  small  deciduous  part, 

Which  I,  a  monarch,  can  shake  off,  whene'er  I  choose  to  reign." 

And  then  the  tears — the  slow,  great  tears  which  manhood  seldom 

sheds, 

Swelled  upward  from  his  bursting  heart  into  his  burning  eyes, 
Till  all  his  soul  gave  way  ;  and  as  a  fire  enkindled  spreads, 

Darted  the  arrows  through  his  frame  of  nameless  agonies. 
This  for  his  daughter — how  should  he  teach  her  to  bear  this  scorn 
ing— 

How  hide  her  from  its  blighting  breath,  or  save  her  from  de 
spair  ? 

How  keep  that  flower,  as  frail  and  fair  as  the  wild-rose  of  morning, 
From  withering  ere  his  noon  of  hope,  in  pity's  stifling  air  ? 


Oh,  how  hope  deferred  destroyeth  the  eye's  brightness !  how  it 
stealeth 

From  the  lip  its  hue  of  coral,  from  the  cheek  its  sea-shell  pink; 
Oh,  how  hardly  with  the  youthful  heart  the  hand  of  sorrow  dealeth, 

And  how  surely,  like  a  stranded  ship,  the  broken  heart  will  sink ! 


CROZAT'S  DAUGHTER.  127 

On  a  couch,  nor  soft,  nor  silken,  lies  the  merchant-noble's  daughter  ; 
Hard  and  cold  the  bed  they  give  her,  hard  and  cold,  and  snowy 

white ; 
And  she  chides  not,  and  she  weeps  not,  that  to  this  her  maids 

have  brought  her, 
But  she  lieth  still  and  patient  through  the  long  and  woful  night. 

There  are  many  waxen  tapers  burning  in  the  lady's  chamber, 

And  the  censers  smoke  with  incense  that  she  ever  loved  the  best ; 
And  a  trembling  hand  upon  her  breast  hath  laid  a  cross  of  amber, 

To  denote  our  sin  and  sorrow ;  still  she  showeth  no  unrest ! 
She  was  ever  sweet  and  patient,  and  this  seemeth  but  the  meek 
ness 

Of  her  crushed  and  broken  spirit,  bearing  death  without  com 
plaint  ; 

For  she  looks  but  as  she  ever  looked  in  pain-embittered  weakness — • 
The  same  sweet  ghost  of  wasted  youth — the  same  half- earthly 
saint ! 

Ah,  to  see  her  thus,  so  fair  and  still,  calls  tears  of  easy  shedding, 

And  our  eyes  run  o'er  with  gentle  grief,  that  passeth  soon  to 

smiling  ; 
But  oh !  there  is  another  grief  we  look  upon  with  dreading, 

And  which,  once  seen,  from  memory  there  is  no  more  exiling : 
A  noble  man — a  proud,  high  man,  whose  years  arc  yet  unfaded, 

Who  standeth  like  a  giant  tree  to  guard  a  tender  flower — 
To  see  him  fade,  as  perisheth  the  fragile  plant  he  shaded, 

And  grow  a  gray  and  bent  old  man,  down-stricken  in  an  hour ! 

Oh,  long  had  Crozat  toiled  and  striven,  with  fate  his  toil  oppos 
ing; 

Long  had  he  pampered  his  wild  hopes  boldly  against  despair 
ing. 

But  day  by  day,  and  month  by  month,  his  failures  were  disclos 
ing. 

And  time,  which  wore  so  fast  with  him,  his  last  of  hopes  was 
wearing. 


128  KEATS. 


"  0  God !"  he  said,  "  forget  my  vow,  my  vow  of  sinful  wrath, 
When  mad  with  pain  and  stinging  pride  I  swore  to  be  a  king ; 

Oh  !  save  my  child — my  angel  child — the  starlight  of  my  path, 
And  take  for  sacrifice  all  else  to  which  my  passions  cling. 

"  0  Heaven !"  he  cried,  "  take  not  again  my  heart's  most  sacred 

treasure ; 

Thou  hast  my  youth's  dear  idol  now  among  thy  angel  throng ; 
Forgive  me,  Heaven,  if  in  her  child  I've  had  too  proud  a  pleasure, 
And  leave  me  yet  a  little  while  this  love  than  death  more 

strong." 
But  ah !  the  reed  was  broken,  and  the  soul  that  leaned  upon  it 

Fell  and  rose  not,  but  lay  stricken  by  an  infinite  despair ; 
And  the  tomb  of  Crozat's  daughter  bears  the  simple  story  on  it 
Of  two  hearts — both  by  love   broken — child's   and  parent's, 
mouldering  there! 


KEATS. 

THE  tall  arched  windows  were  flung  open  wide 
To  the  cool  night  breeze.     Not  a  shadow  hung 
Between  the  world  without  and    he  within — 
It  would  have  stifled  him,  his  soul  so  gasped 
And  struggled  for  more  breath — for  room  to  be ! 
And  with  uneven  steps  treading  in  haste 
Across  the  floor  with  moonlight  carpeted, 
He  flung  his  arms  out  wildly,  as  if  he 
Would  part  the  air  pressing  too  hard  around, 
As  if  even  space  were  palpable  to  him, 
And  weighed  upon  his  spirit  with  a  might 
That  crushed  his  soul  like  iron.     All  the  while 
The  big  drops  of  his  anguish  stood  out  thick 
Upon  his  pale,  broad  forehead ;  and  his  lips 


KEATS.  129 


Were  withered  with  convulsions ;  and  his  mouth 

"Was  circled  by  a  rim  of  ghastly  white, 

Like  that  about  his  eyes,  betokening 

How  well-nigh  had  the  struggle  worn  him  out. 

He  walked  and  muttered  to  himself,  and  made 

All  passionate  gestures  forced  by  agony, 

Till  his  first  strength  was  spent,  then  flung  him  down, 

And  wept  as  woman  weeps — a  flood  of  tears. 

Heaven  sent  us  tears !     How  would  the  weak  survive 

When  their  great  sorrows  crush  them,  if  their  grief 

Were  softened  by  no  weeping?     Oh,  thank  God, 

Who  gives  us  tears  for  sorrow's  medicine. 

And  by  and  by  he  rose  upright,  and  stood 
Once  more  in  the  full  moonlight,  pale  and  still, 
A  statue  of  sweet  sorrow :  his  short  curls 
Dank  and  disheveled  on  his  youthful  brow ; 
And  his  eyes  bright  with  moisture,  and  the  light 
Of  an  unquenchable  spirit.     Proudly  thus, 
With  a  half-conquered  anguish  at  his  heart, 
He  gave  his  sorrow  vocal  utterance : 

What  am  I  ?  a  poet  only, 
.  A  poor  poet  little  gifted ; 
Yet  this  creature,  low  and  lonely, 

Once  his  passionate  eyes  hath  lifted 
In  a  love  too  fond  and  daring  : 

And  for  this  great  sin,  0  Heaven, 
Be  his  punishment  unsparing — 

Be  his  foul  heart  stung  and  riven ! 

And  this  poet  is  ambitious — 

Singing  his  own  songs  at  pleasure — 
Therefore  for  this  wrong1  malicious, 

& 

The  world  hates  him  without  measure. 
0  just  world  !  0  tender  woman! 

Would  my  heart  like  yours  were  iron ! 


130  KEATS. 

But  because  God  made  it  human, 
All  these  woes  its  way  environ. 

Slighted  love  !  and  slighted  labor ! 

Man  who  in  dull  hatred  passeth 
Unjust  judgment  on  his  neighbor, 

Sorrow  for  himself  amasseth, 
And  in  turn  is  scorned  and  hunted ;     • 

But  who  breaks  by  many  bruises 
The  proud  heart  to  kindness  wonted, 

Knows  his  jest  the  world  amuses. 

Let  me  live  to  brook  their  smiling — 

God  !  oh,  let  me  live  and  strengthen ; 
I  can  bear  their  cold  reviling, 

Bear  all,  if  my  day  thou  lengthen. 
All,  I  said — and  yet  my  spirit 

Fainteth  at  one  burning  vision — 
One  wild  dream  still  haunting  near  it, 

Sweet  with  love,  mad  with  derision. 

0  she  looked  an  angel  shining 

On  me  through  her  golden  hair : 
Her  sweet  eyes  seemed  aye  divining 

Some  new  beauty  everywhere : 
Smiling  out  so  soft  and  kindly 

On  whate'er  she  looked  upon  ; 
Yet  my  soul  but  saw  her  blindly, 

As  if  she  had  been  the  sun. 

0  the  poet  pines  for  beauty, 

Yet  he  should  not  dare  approach  it ! 
Far- off  worship  is  his  duty : 

E'en  the  idol  would  reproach  it, 
Were  his  wild  devotion  nearer; 

Oftener  for  the  brainless  rover 
Is  reserved  that  other,  dearer 

Right  to  be  the  loved  and  lover. 


KEATS. 


Seeing  her  thus,  why  should  I  love  her  ? 

0  it  is  that  fatal  sweetness, 
Round  about  her  and  above  her — 

"Tis  her  beauty's  full  completeness 
That  for  evermore  deceives  me, 

Seeming  like  a  soul  outshining  ; 
And  this  falsehood  never  leaves  me, 

But  my  fond  soul  still  keeps  pining. 

0  God !  I  am  all  unworthy, 

Heart  and  mind  are  spent  and  wasted ; 
And  this  struggle  with  the  earthy 

Souls  of  men,  my  life  hath  blasted. 
But  I'll  nerve  me  up  to  bear  it — 

Be  a  man  with  men  contending ; 
Hug  the  mortal  while  I  wear  it, 

And  hope  for  a  speedy  ending. 


In  Rome  are  many  ruins,  and  men  come 

To  weep  in  pious  sorrow  o'er  an  arch 
Fallen  in  fragments — to  bewail  the  doom 

Of  broken  marble,  and  to  chide  the  march 
Of  pitiless  time,  who  yearly  covers  o'er 

With  dust  and  ivy  some  affecting  show 
Of  the  decay  of  greatness — to  deplore 

A  costly  edifice's  overthrow. 

And  some,  a  few,  do  rouse  up  the  dead  past, 
And  talk  sublimely  to  the  ancient  ghosts 

Of  Cicero  and  Caesar,  with  a  vast 
"  Amount  of  fancy  which  deserves  their  boasts. 

The  past  is  a  great  study — it  is  well ! 

Man  should  look  backward  to  know  where  he  is 

Then  let  the  pilgrim  court  the  awful  spell — 
A  pensive,  salutary  joy  is  his. 


132  KEATS. 


But,  0  young  poet,  stay  upon  your  round, 
Your  wandering  feet  beside  a  brother's  tomb, 

And  gird  your  spirit  up  for  slight  and  wound, 
Lest,  like  the  sleeper's,  your  soul  sink  in  gloom. 

A  broken  heart !  ah,  'tis  a  bitter  thing 

To  know  the  gentle  in  the  world  must  die ; 

That  man  must  steel  his  heart  by  force  to  wring 
From  his  unfeeling  fellow  equity, 
Or  perish,  name  and  fame,  in  calumny. 

Each  blessing  has  its  bane,  and  thy  complaining 
Is  that  thy  gifts  are  not  unmixed  with  pain ; 

So  finely  strung  thy  heart-chords,  some  are  straining, 
And  if  they  be  but  touched  will  snap  in  twain. 

But  oh,  thy  passionate  love  is  not  all  slighted, 

If  from  some  heart  o'erburdened  like  thine  own — 

Some  fond,  weak  heart,  by  pain  and  passion  blighted- 
It  wakes  on  chords  long  silent  their  last  tone, 
And  brings  back  tears  and  gladness  long  unknown. 


AZLEA.  133 


AZLEA. 

DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 

AZLEA,  an  iinprovisatrice, 

MOZARINI,  fatker  to  Azlea,  and  a,  musical  composer. 

HERMON,  a  m<3nk. 

ALVERNON,  an  artist. 

Fisherman  and  citizens. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — Shore  of  the  Mediterranean. 

Enter  AZLEA. 

Azlea.  'Tis  sunset  on  the  ocean !     Gloriously 
Has  the  god  canopied  his  purple  bed 
With  crimson  and  with  gold !  and  on  the  sea 
The  ruby  richness  of  his  radiance  shed — 
Tinging  the  wavelets  with  a  deeper  dye, 
More  regal  in  its  hue  than  blushing  morn, 
And  softer  than  the  loveliness  of  noon ; 
Yet  beautiful,  as  when  from  darkness  born 
Light  threw  o'er  earth  its  heaven-borrowed  boon, 
And  earth  and  ocean  burst  from  mystery ! 
And  grand  as  beautiful ;  the  glowing  sky, 
With  its  high  piled  up  masses  of  bright  clouds, 
And  ocean  mirror  striving  to  outvie 
In  gorgeousness  the  many-colored  crowds 
Of  grotesque  forms  sailing  the  upper  blue ; 
And  the  o'erhanging  rocks,  whose  sullen  gloom 
Rests  like  a  frown  upon  the  ocean's  brow — 
Whose  towering  crests  along  the  shores  loom, 
Contrasting  with  their  shade  the  sunset's  glow : 
Earth,  sky,  and  ocean,  make  one  splendid  view ! 

Enter  HERMON,  advancing  along  the  shore,  and  listening. 

Her.  Methinks  the  hollow  sighing  of  the  main 
Hath  wondrous  music  in  it.     The  wild  tales 
12 


J  34  AZLEA. 


Of  mermaid  and  of  sea-nymph,  by  this  scene, 

And  this  mysterious  music,  are  recalled  ; 

And  I  can  fancy  where  their  pearly  barks 

Will  burst  the  azure  waves  and  greet  my  sight 

With  their  much  storied  loveliness.     And  now 

I  hear  a  burst  of  song,  as  witching  real 

As  if  'twere  mortal  sung  it,  and  I  saw 

The  songstress  with  mine  eyes.     Perchance  there  is 

A  wind-harp  on  these  shores;  I'll  seek  it  out, 

For  I  do  love  these  harps  of  nature  best ; 

And  they  are  tuned  by  spirits,  whose  light  fingers 

Do  at  the  same  time  sweep  song  from  our  hearts, 

Vibrating  our  whole  being. 

[^4  song  is  heard,  and  AZLEA  appears  from  behind  a  rocJe. 

SONG. 

Maidens  of  the  coral  grove ! 

Hear  what  I  implore  of  you : 
If  ye  know  of  endless  love, 

Tell  your  earthly  sister  true ; 
Mortals  tell  her  love  is  vain — 
Answer  from  the  sighing  main ! 

Her.  A  fair  enchantress !  and  by  her  frail  form, 
And  youthful,  innocent  face,  a  very  child  ! 
Too  lovely  to  be  mortal,  I  should  say, 
Save  for  the  hound  that  tracks  her  sylph-like  feet. 
Lovely !  she  seems  as  if  she  were  the  soul 
Of  all  the  mighty  beauty  of  this  scene ; 
Wondrously  beautiful !  not  more  sublime 
Looks  the  great  ocean  than  that  infant  face  ! 
Such  a  strange  loveliness  the  scene,  the  hour, 
And  the  wild,  mournful  music  of  the  waves, 
Have  breathed  into  each  feature.     And  the  light 
Of  her  young  spirit  shining  purely  through, 
Awed  and  o'ermastered,  yet  devoid  of  fear, 
She  seems  as  when  on  the  bewildered  sight 
Of  earth's  first  children  burst  this  glorious  sphere, 


AZLEA.  135 


An  angel  spirit,  spell-bound  with  delight ! 

I'll  break  the  spell,  for  I  would  see  the  change 

Come  over  those  rapt  features. 

[Throws  a  shell  into  the  water  at  her  feet,  AZLEA  trips 
toward  him,  but  suddenly  pauses. 

Azlea.  Methought  thou  wert  my  father ;  I  knew  not 
That  others  visited  this  lonely  place. 
I  thought  that  he  had  come  to  bid  me  sing 
With  him  some  wild  sea- melody  ;  for  we 
Do  often  at  this  hour  sit  here  awhile, 
And  I  sing  songs  suiting  his  mood,  which  he 
Accompanies  with  his  great,  solemn  airs, 
That  thousands  have  applauded ;  but  none  feel 
The  music  that  is  in  them  like  himself. 

Her.  Sweet  child  !  thy  father's  solemn  melodies 
Have  been  infused  into  thy  youthful  spirit! 
Ere  yet  I  saw  thee — hidden  from  my  sight 
By  the  projecting  rocks- — I  heard  thy  voice 
Blending  to  harmony  the  mournful  sounds 
Of  sighing  winds  and  waves ;  and  I  did  think 
Some  spirit's  airy  fingers  swept  a  lyre, 
Along  these  echoing  shores.     And  I  was  right ; 
'Twas  nature's  lyre  I  heard — its  thousand  strings 
Vibrating  in  thy  heart.     Wilt  sing  for  me  ? 

Azlea.  I  seldom  sing  for  any  but  my  father  ; 
But  did  I  know  what  music  suits  you  best, 
I  might  attempt  a  single  song  for  you. 

Her.  The  one  which  you  were  singing. 

Azlea.   (Sings.) 

Maidens  of  the  bright  blue  sea, 

Dwells  love  in  your  crystal  caves? 
Live  ye  not  right  merrily, 

'Neath  the  wild  careering  waves? 


136  AZLEA. 


Mortals  only  hear  their  moan, 
Have  they  not  a  softer  tone  ? 

Maidens  of  the  coral  grove ! 

Hear  what  I  implore  of  you : 
If  ye  know  of  endless  love, 

Tell  your  earthly  sister  true ; 
Mortals  tell  her  love  is  vain — 
Answer  from  the  sighing  main ! 

Her.  So  young,  and  misanthropic  !  say,  my  child, 
Who  taught  you  how  to  doubt  earth's  love  and  trust  ? 

Azlea.  I  scarce  can  tell,  unless  it  were  the  one 
Who  only  loves  me,  and  alone  I  love — 
My  father !     Yet  he  never  bade  me  doubt, 
Or  turn  from  love;  but  when  I  look  on  him, 
Shrinking  away  from  the  world's  noisy  praise, 
And  breathing  mournful  music  to  himself, 
It  seems  as  if  he  thought  'twere  mockery — 
And  having  learned  to  understand  each  tone, 
His  plaintive  melodies  are  more  eloquent 
To  me,  of  thought  and  feeling,  than  are  words. 
If  this  can  be  called  teaching,  'twas  this  taught 
Even  my  earliest  childhood  to  hoard  up 
Its  fullness  of  affection  from  the  world, 
And  turned  my  heart  tp  nature's  changeless  love. 

Her.  Dost  thou  love  nature  wholly ;  her  wild  scenes 
Of  grand  and  awful  beauty  dost  thou  love, 
Even  as  the  starlight  or  the  sunset  hour  ? 

Azlea.  Yes,  almost  more,  but  with  a  stranger  feeling. 
I  love  the  lightning's  vivid  flash — 
The  deep-toned  thunder's  angry  crash ; 
I  love  the  ocean's  stormy  roar, 
That  beats  its  surge  against  the  shore ; 


AZLEA.  137 


The  eagle's  scream,  the  storm-bird's  cry, 
The  winds  that  whistle  loud  and  high  ; 
The  elements'  most  angry  moan 
Is  to  my  heart  a  music  tone  ! 
And  yet  I  love  earth's  gentler  hours, 
Her  sunny  smile,  and  song,  and  flowers ; 
I  love  the  gushing  waterfall, 
The  tiny  streamlet's  gentler  call — 
Sol's  morning  rise,  and  sunset  glow, 
Shining  upon  the  mountain's  snow 
In  many  a  radiant  rosy  wreath, 
Shaming  the  shadow-land  beneath! 
I  love  the  tall  old  monarch  oak, 
The  pensive  willow  by  the  brook ; 
I  love  the  brilliant  flowers,  but  less 
Than,  the  sweet  violet's  bashful  ness. 
Oft  when  the  summer  sun  goes  down 
From  his  high  zenith-sceptered  throne, 
And  with  his  skillful  pencil  shrouds 
The  azure  o'er  with  glorious  clouds, 
To  vail  his  eye's  bright  parting  ray, 
And  promise  us  another  day, 
As  bright  and  beautiful,  to  come, 
Yet  in  eternity,  morrow's  home  ; 
Oft  at  such  hours  my  heart  doth  fill 
With  feelings  strange,  unutterable  ! 
And  such  emotions  crowd  my  soul 
As  my  weak  strength  can  not  control  ; 
And  such  a  strong  oppressiveness 
Sometimes  upon  my  heart  doth  press, 
I  long  to  take  from  out  my  breast 
The  heart  that  feels  such  wild  unrest : 
So  much  by  different  time  and  scene, 
My  spirit  tempest-tost  hath  been. 

Her.  Sweet,  young  enthusiast !  how  high,  and  pure, 
And  grand  thy  natural  poetry  of  soul  ! 
But  thou  art  yet  a  child,  and  thou  wilt  learn 


138  AZLEA. 


Another  and  a  different  kind  of  love, 

Whose  power  will  be  a  wild  idolatry — 

A  worship  stronger  than  the  wildest  strength 

The  majesty  of  nature  can  inspire. 

It  would  be  well  couldst  thou  forever  keep 

Thy  pure  and  innocent  guilelessness  of  thought ; 

But  the  world  hath  it  otherwise ;  and  none 

May  pass  its  confines  without  having  felt 

Its  cold  and  chilling  bitterness.     But  go ; 

Thy  father  will  await  thee,  wondering 

At  thy  long  tarrying  away  from  him. 

And  see  !  where  late  the  sunset  hues  were  bright, 

A  sullen,  heavy,  inky-colored  mass 

Is  darkening  the  horizon.     We  shall  see 

The  tempest  in  its  might,  and  hear  the  sound 

Of  awful  music,  such  as  sea,  and  sky, 

And  winds,  and  creaking  earth  commingled, 

Making  one  terrible  chorus,  can  produce ! 

Haste  then ;  but  ere  thou  goest,  let  me  pray 

Heaven's  blessings  on  thee  and  thy  innocence. 

God  bless  thee,  and  farewell ! 

Azlea.  I  thank  thee,  holy  father.     Azlea 
Will  keep  thy  blessing  in  remembrance.  [Exit  AZLEA. 

Her.  (Soliloquizing) 

Earth  hath  some  Eden-spirits  yet — though  few. 
O  how  may  man,  in  his  dark  sinfulness, 
Stand  silenced  and  rebuked  before  a  child  ! 
Who,  knowing  not  of  reason,  hath  yet  learned 
To  call  life's  mockeries  by  their  real  name  ; 
And  being  herself  all  love,  yet  how  to  keep 
Her  spirit  all  unsullied  from  earth's  lusts ; 
While  he,  with  his  great,  godlike  attributes, 
Still  keeps  within    his  bosom  ceaseless  streams 
Of  every  evil  passion,  till  his  heart 
Hath  not  one  fountain  in  it  of  sweet  waters ! 


AZLEA.  109 


And  being  thus,  still  sneers  upon  his  fellow, 
And  taunts  him  with  his  own  infirmities; 
Till  life  becomes  a  scene  of  wild  turmoil, 
Of  vain,  tumultuous  striving  to  become 
Masters  of  others'  passions — while  our  own 
Are  burning  out  our  hearts. 

0  what  a  scene  ! 

The  tempest  hath  begun  its  terrible  play, 
And  sky,  and  earth,  and  ocean  are  at  strife, 
With  winds,  and  surge,  and  thunders,  discoursing 
With  angry  voices  their  hoarse-throated  rage  ! 
How  the  forked  lightnings  rend  the  sable  sky ! 
Revealing  for  an  instant  the  wild  sight 
Of  mountain  billows  and  dark,  shapeless  rocks; 
Showing  me  where  I  stand — how  near  to  death — 
A  rude  and  pitiless  death ;  yet  I  stir  not, 
Nor  feel  a  thrill  of  fear.     I  almost  wish 
Some  wave,  more  daring  than  the  rest,  would  reach 
My  perilous  footing,  bearing  me  from  hence, 
To  die  among  its  fellows.     I  would  sooner 
Die  in  a  scene  like  this,  of  nature's  strife, 
Than  living  wearily  a  joyless  life, 
At  last  to  perish  in  the  savage  war 
Of  jarring  human  passions.     I  can  hear 
The  screaming  of  the  sea-gull ;  well  he  loves 
A  time  like  this ;  that  his  sharp  voice  may  be 
Distinguished  even  above  the  howling  blasts 
And  heavy  surgings  of  the  heaving  sea. 
I,  like  him,  have  loved  such  tempest  hours — 
But  with  a  different  passion  :  I  can  feel 
The  wild  sublimity — can  steep  my  soul 
In  the  stern  grandeur  of  this  lonely  place, 
With  darkness,  waves,  and  thunder,  to  impress 
Its  power  upon  my  spirit ;  not  like  him, 
Striving  to  out-noise  the  tempest.     Vain  ambition ! 
Yet  many,  0  how  many,  strive  for  this, 
To  be  the  loudest  in  the  stormy  crowd 


140  AZLEA. 


Of  noisy  human  struggles ;  to  be  heard 

Above  man's  babbling  thunders,  and  to  say 

Their  voice  hath  been  most  powerful.  [Exit  HERMON. 

SCENE  II. — An  apartment  in  MAZARINI'S  house.     ALVERNON  lying 
on  a  couch — AZLEA  bending  over  him. 

Enter  MAZARINI  and  a  Fisherman. 

Fish.  The  vessel  was  wrecked  off  our  coast ;  I  found  him  lying 
on  the  rocks,  sadly  bruised.  I  think  he  will  recover ;  so  leaving 
him  in  your  care,  I  must  away.  [Exit  Fisherman. 

Azlea.  The  stranger — oh,  he  lives  !  I  feel  his  pulse 
Flutter  as  quick,  and  soft,  and  varyingly 
As  a  fine  harp-string  in  the  impatient  wind. 

Maz.  Life  struggles  for  the  mastery  with  death  ; 
The  cordials  you  have  given  him  will  restore 
The  inanimate  pulse,  and  bring  the  breath 
Back  to  his  death  white  lips.     And  yet  perchance 
Our  kindness  is  a  cruelty  to  him, 
If  he  should  wake  to  find  his  hopes  all  wrecked — 
A  wife  or  sister  buried  in  the  sea, 
Or  his  wealth  wasted.     Human  hopes  are  frail, 
And  one  night  may  have  blasted  his  for  aye. 

Azlea.  We  will  be  kind  to  him,  as  to  a  brother, 
And  heal  his  wounds,  and  soothe  his  broken  spirit, 
That  he  may  not  die  grieving  for  his  loss. 

Maz.  He  will  not,  child ;  not  many  mourn  so  well. 

Azlea.  I'll  bring  him  fruit  and  flowers  to  drive  away 
The  loneliness  of  solitude  ;  and  sing 
The  softest  airs  I  know ;  and  tell  him  tales 
Of  magic  and  of  love.     Would  it  be  wrong 
To  entertain  him  thus  ?     It  seems  to  me 
It  would  be  over-bold ;  and  yet  last  night 


AZLEA.  141 


I  talked  as  fearlessly  as  I  do  now ; 

But  'twas  with  one  who  seemed  to  shun  the  world, 

As  we  do,  father;  and  so  I  but  thought 

And  spoke  with  him  as  if  it  had  been  you. 

He  was  a  friar,  and  he  blessed  your  child. 

But  this  young  stranger  must  be  of  the  world, 

And  I  shall  learn  to  fear  him. 

Maz.  My  child — my  Azlea !  would  no  wayward  fate 
Had  thrown  him  in  your  path.     Nay,  look  not  thus — 
I  have  a  pitying  heart,  and  would  rejoice 
To  do  a  gentle  service  for  a  friend, 
Or  even  for  an  enemy  ;  but  now 
I  fear  what  I  can  not  explain ;  nor  can 
Your  guileless  nature  understand  my  thoughts. 
Oh,  must  this  be  ?     Azlea,  let  not 
Thy  heart  be  stolen  from  thy  father  now, 
In  his  hoar,  desolate  age  ;  but  no  ! 
'Tis  blest,  and  fresh,  and  happy  with  thy  love  ; 
But  let  it  not  be  withered  suddenly, 
By  finding  its  last  solace  taken  away — 
My  child's  sweet  love  divided ! 

Azlea.   (Throwing  herself  into  his  arms.)  My  father  I 
My  dear  father !  hath  thy  child  e'er  known 
A  thought  save  thoughts  of  thee — and  dost  thou  now 
Wrong  her,  by  dreaming  that  she  can  forget 
Her  soul's  one  holy  passion,  save  the  love 
She  gives  to  nature,  and  which  has  become 
An  element  of  her  being  !     No — oh,  no ! 

Maz.  Blest  Spirit,  do  thy  will !     It  can  not  be 
Evil  could  reach  thee ;  follow  what  way 
Thy  purity  shall  teach  thee ;  and  forget 
An  old  man's  selfish  jealousies.     Sweet  one, 
Thy  patient  needs  thy  care ;  I  must  go  forth 
To  catch  some  wild  sea-melody,  the  breeze 
May  whisper  to  my  ear.  [Exit  MAZARINI. 


142  AZLEA. 


Azlea.  (Bending  over  Alvernon.) 
There's  breath  upon  his  lips,  and  on  his  cheek 
A  faint  and  trembling  color.     His  dark  hair 
Is  heavy  yet,  and  cold  with  the  sea-brine, 
And  his  high,  rounded  forehead,  has  a  gash 
Cut  by  the  cruel  rocks.     I'll  chafe  his  brow  ; 
He  soon  must  waken  from  this  deathlike  sleep. 

Alvernon.   (  Unclosing  his  eyes.) 
I  must  have  dreamed,  or  else  I  now  do  dream : 
I  thought  that  in  the  tempest  all  were  lost, 
And  the  cold  waves  closed  round  my  shuddering  form, 
But  all  was  tumult,  night,  and  thundering, 
And  I  know  not  what  happened.     Where  am  I  ? 
This  is  a  pleasant  place,  and  thou  art  young 
And  very  beautiful ;  how  came  I  here  ? 

Azlea.  Thou  hast  been  ill,  and  I  must  bid  thee  rest ; 
I'll  talk  to  thee  when  thou  art  somewhat  stronger. 
Now  close  thine  eyes,  and  I  will  bring  thee  wine, 
Which  thou  must  first  partake,  then  sleep  again; 
I'll  sing  some  low,  soft  melody  to  lull 
Your  senses  to  repose,  when  I  return.  [Exit  AZLEA. 

Alver.  Who  is  this  creature  of  such  wondrous  beauty  ? 
Her  voice  is  plaintive  music  in  itself; 
And  she  will  sing  to  me — how  innocent ! 
'Tis  sweet  to  have  such  minister  to  sooth 
The  body's  stinging  pains ;  but  where  am  I, 
And  who  is  she  ;  alike  mysterious  ? 


Re-enter  AZLEA  with  wine  and  fruits. 
Azlea.  I  have  brought  that  which  will  revive  your  strength. 

Alver.  I  could  now  sleep ;  I  feel  a  languor  stealing 
Over  my  senses  like  a  pleasant  balm. 
If  now  thou'lt  sing  for  me  I  shall  be  grateful, 
And  see  thee  in  my  dreams. 


AZLEA.  143 


Azlea.  (Sings.) 

Rest  thee  now,  weary  one,  soft  is  thy  pillow  ; 

Rest  thee,  and  dream  of  thy  dear  distant  home ; 
Dream  of  the  hearts  that  far  over  the  billow 

Still  love  you,  and  bless  you  wherever  you  roam. 

Dream  of  thy  mother,  whose  prayers  ever  arise 

At  morning,  at  noon,  and  at  evening  for  thee ; 
Rest  thee,  and  dream  of  her — richer  the  prize 

Of  a  mother's  warm  blessing  than  wealth  of  the  sea. 

Dream  of  the  sister  whose  tender  caresses 
Clung  to  thy  form  in  her  weeping  farewell ; 

Dream  of  your  meeting,  your  joyful  embraces, 
And  the  stories  of  love  each  shall  hasten  to  tell. 

Dream  of  thy  home,  of  its  dear  youthful  pleasures, 
Of  the  sports  of  the  field,  of  the  river  and  wood — 

Thy  heart  shall  remember  all  these  with  its  pleasures, 
And  mem'ries  rush  over  thy  soul  in  a  flood. 


low 


Rest  thee  then,  weary  one,  soft  is  thy  pilk 
Rest  thee  and  dream  of  the  land  of  thy  love  : 

Absence,  nor  distance,  nor  rude  rolling  billow, 
To  soul  meeting  soul  shall  a  barrier  prove. 

Enter  HERMON. 

Her.  Heaven's  blessings  on  thee,  Azlea,  sweet  child  ! 
Thou  hast  a  suff' rer  under  thy  kind  care, 
Who  I  perceive  is  sleeping.     I  was  sent 
By  a  poor  fisherman  of  the  coast,  to  him, 
That  should  he  wish  confession  of  his  sins 
He  might  have  holy  comfort  and  advice. 

Azlea.  The  stranger,  holy  father,  is  now  lying 
In  quiet,  natural  sleep,  that  will  restore 
His  former  health  to  him  ;  except  some  cuts 


144  AZLEA. 


Which  will  require  good  'tendance  ;  and  for  this 
My  father  and  myself  have  pledged  ourselves, 
In  kindness  to  the  suffering. 

Her.  Methought  I  heard  sweet  music,  when  I  first 
Entered  your  vine- wreathed  cottage  ;  did  I  so  ? 

Azlea.  You  may  have  heard  a  simple  melody 
With  which  I  sung  the  invalid  to  rest. 

Her.  You  did  then  sing  the  stranger  to  his  rest, 
And  your  fair  hands  have  bathed  his  aching  brow, 
And  your  sweet  voice  has  whispered  tenderness, 
And  you  have  ministered  to  his  every  want 
With  most  unsparing  kindness.     Azlea, 
This  stranger  here  is  young  ;  is  of  the  world  ; 
'Tis  true  he  may  be  good  and  virtuous, 
But  there  are  few  who  are  ;  nay,  blush  not,  child, 
With  such  a  pained  look  ;  I  did  not  mean 
What  thou  hast  done  is  wrong,  in  being  kind — 
But  in  the  world  of  which  this  stranger  is, 
Such  innocence  as  thine  meets  sneering  taunts — 
Being  deemed  by  its  misjudging  sinfulness, 
Other  than  what  it  is.     Art  weeping,  sweet  ? 
Nay,  weep  not,  I  was  wrong ;  and  now  I  think, 
While  gazing  on  thee  and  thy  mournful  face, 
Not  any  but  the  vilest  could  withstand 
The  power  of  thy  guileless  purity. 
I  would  not  take  thy  unsuspecting  truth, 
And  give  thee  all  earth's  wisdom,  and  its  wealth, 
For  thou  wouldst  be  the  loser. 

Azlea.  Father,  if  in  aught  I  have  transgressed, 
Even  the  world's  stern  code  of  modest  action, 
I  should  be  bitterly  grieved  ;  and  thou  art  right 
To  warn  me  of  my  folly.     Azlea 
Knows  little  of  the  world,  and  would  not  learn 
More  than  she  knows  already,  if  to  learn 


AZLEA.  145 


Brings  such  a  painful  feeling,  as  but  now, 
Poisoned  the  pure  emotions  she  had  felt 
Toward  the  suffering  stranger  whom  she  had 
Striven  to  render  happy.     Evermore 
I  will  be  coy  and  careful,  never  giving 
To  any  but  my  parent  the  warm  love 
That  does  pervade  my  being;  keeping  all 
Love's  tender  attributes  and  natural  cares, 
In  one  deep,  ceaseless  channel  of  affection  ; 
Leaning  alone  for  tenderness  and  counsel 
Upon  one  natural  trust — the  only  one 
Nature  has  given  me — a  father's  love. 

Her.  I  have  been  very  wrong  to  poison  thus 
Thy  innocent  trustfulness ;  for  there  is  not 
A  more  heart-troubling  spirit  haunting  man, 
Dwelling  in  gloom,  and  shadowing  the  soul 
With  a  wing  blacker  than  the  wing  of  hate ; 
There  is  not  in  all  man's  grievous  torments 
A  darker,  gloomier,  or  more  hideous  form 
Of  human  ill  than  sullen,  black  suspicion  ! 
I  would  not  teach  thee  distrust ;  'tis  the  bane 
Of  all  life's  sweetness ;  I  would  but  have  said 
"Beware  of  seeming  virtues ;  yet  this  much 
Shall  be  retracted,  since  it  pains  thee  so 
To  bear  the  imputation  of  a  fault  not  meant, 
And  really  not  existing  but  in  seeming. 
If  this  man  be  not  the  veriest  villain 
That  darkens  earth  with  impotence  of  virtue, 
He  will  but  love  thee  for  thy  ignorance 
Of  the  world's  sinful  wisdom,     /do  so; 
Thou  art  to  me  far  loftier  than  the  best 
Earth's  royalty  can  boast ;  and  thy  pure  soul 
Hath  radiance  only  borrowed  from  the  skies. 

Azlea.  Wert  thou  not  who  thou  art— a  holy  teacher- 
I  should  suspect  from  what  thyself  hath  said 
That  thou  wert  uttering  in  mere  idleness 
13 


-j  (6  AZLEA. 


The  empty  words  of  flattery.     I  am  but 

The  simple  child  of  nature  ;  have  not  known 

Aught  of  man's  wisdom  save  that  gleaned  from  books, 

Such  as  my  father  reads ;  but  I  have  felt 

That  I  was  happier  in  my  wild  retreat 

Than  shining  with  the  glitter  of  the  world 

I've  witnessed  from  afar ;  whose  noisy  voice 

Frightens  me  into  silence,  and  whose  breath 

Would  scorch  my  brain  with  fever ;  for  the  heart 

Beareth  not  many  such  unwilling  lessons 

As  I  have  grieved  to  glean  from  thy  vague  hints — 

Too  definite  for  my  happiness.     But  I 

Perhaps  should  thank  thee  for  advice,  which  now 

My  heart  is  too  much  hurt  and  sorrowing 

To  value  as  it  ought.     I  will  retire, 

And  weep  the  bitter  tears  that  flood  my  eyes, 

And  then  I  may  be  happier  again.  [Exit  AZLEA. 

Her.  I  should  have  known  her  better  than  to  throw 
Reproach  upon  her  actions.     The  young  heart, 
Finding  itself  mistaken  in  its  trust, 
Grows  suddenly  strong ;  and  all  its  softness 
Is  petrified  to  marble.     I  must  be 
Regardful  in  the  future,  and  not  wound 
Her  sensitive  spirit  with  too  stern  a  view 
Of  the  world's  imperfections.     This  is  strange — 
That  with  her  native  doubt  of  human  truth, 
She  still  is  so  much  pained  by  finding  out 
More  than  she  had  suspected.     But  this  youth ! 
Why  do  I  fear  that  she  shall  learn  of  him 
To  feel  delight  in  love  and  confidence  ? 
By  his  fine  forehead,  and  his  placid  mouth, 
And  by  the  lines  upon  his  handsome  face, 
I  should  pronounce  him  noble  in  his  nature — 
Gentle  and  just;  and  such  I  think  he  is; 
Yet  do  I  wish  Azlea  may  never  learn 
To  estimate  his  virtues  as  they  are. 
I  would  have  her  ever  as  she  is — 


AZLEA. 


Childlike,  yet  lofty  ;  gentle,  yet  resolute ; 

Wanting  in  caution,  and  yet  innocent. 

But  Heaven,  which  will  protect  her,  will  deny 

Its  blessing  unto  me,  for  being  unjust 

To  this  unknown  and  shipwrecked  slumberer. 

I  will  go  forth,  and  lifting  up  my  heart, 

Ask  God  to  purge  my  being  from  the  curse 

Of  every  evil  passion ;  lest  I  be 

Tempted  to  violate  my  sacred  vow 

Of  holiest  observance.  [Exit  HERMON. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — Sea-shore. 

Enter  ALVERNON  and  AZLEA. 

Alver.  This  is  indeed  a  grand  and  beautiful  scene, 
Worthy  a  master's  pencil.     Often  I, 
In  Spain,  and  Switzerland,  and  Germany, 
Have  wrapt  my  spirit  in  delicious  dreams, 
And  fancy's  touch,  anticipating  art, 
Hath  placed  them  on  the  canvas ;  while  my  eye 
Feasted  upon  them,  and  my  soul  forgot 
Its  mortal  tenement.     My  spirit  sees, 
With  one  wide,  comprehensive  glance,  a  scene, 
And  copies  with  a  quick  and  perfect  skill, 
Each  beautiful  feature  of  the  whole  grand  piece, 
Dreaming  the  while  in  ecstasy. 

Azlca.  Yours  must  be  a  soul-enchanting  power, 
To  bring  the  grand,  and  beautiful,  and  vast 
Within  the  pencil's  compass  ;  and  to  give 
Such  earnest  likeness  to  it  as  to  cheat 
The  eye  into  believing  that  it  saw 
The  glorious  or  the  fair  original ! 
Do  you  not  worship  your  own  heavenly  art  ? 


148  AZLEA. 


Alver.  It  ever  hath  been  first  in  my  heart's  love ; 
But  I  have  learned  of  thee  a  deeper  love, 
A  higher,  holier,  and  more  sacred  flame 
Than  burns  upon  the  altar  of  ambition. 
Azlea  !  thou  art  a  wondrous  being — 
And  I  know  not  whether  I  dare  to  love  thee; 
But  it  is  virtue  to  acknowledge  this — 
That  thou  hast  held  an  influence  o'er  my  spirit, 
Which  it  will  take  a  lifetime  to  forget. 
Thy  care,  thy  gentleness,  thy  voice  of  song, 
And  more  than  all,  thy  childlike  innocence 
Of  every  impure  sentiment  or  thought, 
Hath  won  the  deep  devotion  of  a  heart 
That  yet  scarce  dares  to  tell  thee  of  its  love ; 
Nor  would  I  venture  to  so  bold  a  thought, 
As  that  I  have  inspired  within  thy  breast 
A  single  feeling  tenderer  than  thou 
Wouldst  have  bestowed  on  any  hapless  stranger 
A  pitying  Heaven  threw  under  thy  sweet  care. 
To-morrow's  sun  will  shine  on  my  farewell 
To  my  dear,  temporary  home  and  thee ; 
And  I  have  naught  to  offer  thee,  in  lieu 
Of  what  would  be  to  some,  more  just  reward- 
Save  warmest  gratitude,  and  warmest  love. 
And  thou  wilt  not  reject  it  ? 

Azlea.  There  can  not  be  reward  more  canceling 
To  every  debt  of  kindness,  than  is  this 
You  offer — earnest  gratitude  ;  but  love 
Is  for  a  higher  purpose.     I  can  not 
Accept  for  guerdon,  what  the  deathless  spirit 
Hath  for  its  immortal  dower.     You  mistake ; 
And  are  yet  ignorant  of  real  love. 

Alver.  Since  you  have  spoken  thus,  I  am  compelled 
To  vindicate  my  sentiments  by  words 
Stronger  than  I  had  purposed.     If  to  say 
Never  shall  I  forget  thee— never  more 


AZLEA.  149 

Hear  in  my  spirit  music  like  thy  voice — 
Never  see  vision  with  so  much  of  heaven 
In  look  or  action ;  that  the  memory 
Of  our  short  intercourse  shall  live  and  burn 
Forever  on  the  altar  of  my  heart ; 
If  to  say  I  love  thee  truly,  wholly, 
With  an  undying  passion,  can  impress 
A  deeper  sense  of  truth  upon  thy  mind, 
Azlea,  I  say  it — and  would  be  believed  ! 

Azlea.  Alvernon,  I  have  never  until  now 
Listened  to  words  of  passion  ;   never  felt 
Aught  of  a  love  other  than  children  feel 
For  parents  best  and  fondest — so  that  now 
Thy  words  sound  through  my  spirit ;  but  my  heart 
Is  hoarded  up  from  passion.     Did  I  feel 
That  in  my  inmost  soul  which  you  describe, 
I  would  not  let  it  live ! 

Alver.  Azlea,  I  have  thought  thee,  and  thou  art, 
The  tender  girl  of  nature,  full  of  love ; 
And  yet  you  tell  me  that  you  would  not  list 
Your  heart's  impassioned  pleadings,  even  when 
Another  heart  joined  in  its  earnest  prayer 
For  the  sweet  blessing  of  your  love.     Is  this 
The  voice  of  your  own  spirit  ?     Hath  it  not 
Been  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  mistrust  ? 
Else  how  didst  thou  learn  to  be  stern  to  love  ? 

Azlea.  Thou  art  right  in  guessing  it  is  not 
The  natural  promptings  of  my  untaught  heart 
To  harden  my  soul's  softness ;  and  I  fear 
I  am  not  cautious  to  propriety ; 
And  knowing  nothing  of  life's  varied  ways, 
I  would  avoid  all  evil. 

Alver.  Surely  thou 

Hast  had  a  gloomy  teacher  for  thy  youth  ; 


150  AZLEA. 


And  wouldst  thou  live  forever  without  love, 
Fearing  thou  shouldst  do  wrong  in  being  trustful  ? 
Nay,  Azlea,  for  once  thou  hast  been  wrong. 

Azlea.  'Tis  true  I  may  be  wrong  in  fostering  doubt ; 
But  I  will  tell  you  how  the  feeling  came. 
Ere  yet  I  saw  thee,  there  was  in  my  heart 
A  native  shrinking  from  the  world's  approach, 
Which  vague  reports  of  glittering  misery, 
And  hollow-heartedness,  and  dark  deceit, 
Reaching  me  in  my  solitude,  increased  ; 
But  I  as  yet  had  never  talked  with  any, 
Who,  knowing  of  the  world,  would  tell  a  child 
Whether  to  love  or  shun  it ;  until  one, 
A  father  of  the  holy  Church  of  Rome, 
Met  me,  and  by  his  converse  of  the  world, 
Taught  me  to  fear  its  hollowness  of  heart. 
'Tis  strange  how  much  I  yield  to  his  dark  counsel — 
Dark  it  does  seem  to  me,  though  I  obey  ; 
But  I  have  thought  that  I  have  been  ungrateful 
From  that  my  real  nature  hates  suspicion, 
And  so  I  listen. 

Alver.  And  his  were  evil  lessons,  Azlea. 
If  the  world  is  void  of  truth  and  honor, 
It  is  because  they  all  are  taught  to  doubt 
Each  other's  love  and  faith ;  and  doubting  thus, 
Grow  proud  and  self-dependent ;  and  the  cloak 
Of  love  and  virtue  is  too  often  worn 
To  hide  the  soul's  corruption.     Were  there  more 
Of  love  and  gentleness,  there  would  be  less 
Of  all  the  evil  passions.     Azlea, 
Reject  such  evil  counsel ;  let  thy  soul, 
Pure  as  it  is,  and  beautiful,  shine  forth, 
Unhidden  by  distrust;  for  purity 
Is  mightier  to  banish  evil  thoughts, 
From  hearts  howe'er  degraded,  than  stern  coldness. 
Say  not  again  thou  wilt  not  list  to  love ; 


AZLEA.  151 


Does  not  thy  mother,  Nature,  breathe  of  love 
In  every  smiling  feature  ?     Is  not  her  voice 
Ever  most  eloquent  of  tenderness  ? 
And  wilt  thou,  her  sweet  child,  reject  her  teaching, 
And  find  in  scorn  a  refuge  from  her  power? 

Azlea.  I  am  yet  but  a  child,  but  if  to  know 
That  Azlea,  in  her  simple  ignorance, 
Hath  let  a  stranger  occupy  her  thoughts 
More  than  was  coy  and  maidenly  ;  and  hath 
Even  had  dreams  of  strange,  delicious  sweetness, 
In  which  she  deemed  she  loved  and  was  beloved — 
If  to  know  this  would  give  thee  happy  thoughts, 
Though  blushing  at  her  own  temerity, 
Azlea  would  still  acknowledge  it. 

Alver.  God  bless  thee,  lovely  one,  for  those  sweet  words ! 
When  in  the  world,  of  which  you  have  such  dread, 
It  will  be  the  sweet  solace  of  my  toils, 
To  think  of  thee,  and  dream  of  coming  years, 
In  which  my  Azlea  and  myself  shall  share 
The  dearest  joys  of  earth !  and  until  then 
Thou  wilt  remember  me  with  love — wilt  thou  ? 

Azlea.  Azlea  can  not  forget  thee. 

Alver.  Now  I  go 

To  try  my  fortunes  in  the  capital ; 
To  catch  the  inspiration  lingering  round 
The  works  of  the  great  masters  ;  and  to  feast 
My  soul,  with  beauty  and  with  power.     But 
I'll  carry  in  my  memory  a  scene, 
And  a  presiding  spirit,  far  more  bright 
Than  any  art  can  pencil  or  imagine.  [Exeunt. 


152  AZLEA. 


ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — Moonlight.     A  garden  in  the  rear  of  MAZARINI'S  house. 

Enter  MAZARINI. 

Maz.  This  is  a  glorious  night !  the  stars  are  out 
In  hosts  innumerable  ;  but  the  moon, 
In  her  resplendent  brilliancy,  so  dims  their  light 
They  scarce  can  be  distinguished,  but  all  blend 
Into  one  paly  maze  of  fretted  gold. 
Beautiful !     How  glorious  is  our  earth, 
How  full  of  loveliness  and  melody  ! 
The  breeze  comes  laden  with  the  rich  perfume 
Of  gardens,  filled  with  the  luscious  fruits, 
And  flowers  steeped  in  night's  extracting  dew; 
While  every  swell  of  its  low,  musical  breath, 
Sweeps  a  more  earnest  gush  of  melody 
From  nature's  thousand  lyres.     0  that  man 
Should  live  in  such  a  world  of  loveliness, 
Yet  bearing  in  his  heart  such  hideous  forms 
Of  darkness  and  wild  discord.     Now  the  past 
Is  in  a  torrent  rushing  o'er  my  soul : 
The  past,  with  its  bright  pages  and  its  dark — 
And  darker  some,  and  gloomier  than  Hades. 
Viola  !  Viola  !  how  my  soul  worshiped  thee ! 
How  wildly  beautiful  thou  wert  in  feature — 
How  wild,  and  sweet,  and  carol-like  thy  voice, 
Whose  charm  first  waked  the  passions  of  a  heart 
That  burned  in  its  unquenched,  unquenchable  fifes, 
Till  naught  was  left  but  ashes.     Even  now 
I  see  thee  as  thou  wert — so  innocent ! 
But  my  vain  love  of  flattery  and  applause 
Forced  thee  upon  the  stage.     How  the  world  stared  ! 
As  if  their  greedy  eyes  would  have  devoured  thee  ; 
And  how  they  shouted  forth  their  mad  applause, 
And  loaded  thee  with  favor !     My  vain  soul, 


AZLEA.  153 


Exulting  in  thy  glorious  power  of  song, 

And  feeling,  seeing,  knowing  nothing  else 

But  thy  most  wondrous  loveliness,  forgot 

The  world  was  black  and  rotten  to  the  core, 

Upon  whose  favor  I  taught  thee  to  lean. 

But  bitterly,  most  bitterly  I  learned 

To  curse  its  dark  beguilings.     Oh  !  that  hour 

In  which  I  learned  that  thou  wert  false  to  me, 

Was  full  of  wilder  torments  than  the  skill 

Of  the  arch-demon  could  ever  have  invented ! 

Then  how  I  cursed  thee,  Viola !  how  I  raved, 

And  stamped,  and  heaped  upon  thy  name 

The  vilest  epithets  my  mind  could  frame ! 

God  knows  what  my  mad  phrensy  would  have  done, 

Hadst  thou  not  left  a  pleader  in  the  cause 

Of  innocence  and  virtue.     Our  sweet  babe, 

When  in  my  rage  I  would  have  smothered  it, 

Looked  up  and  smiled,  with  such  a  heavenly  smile — 

So  bright,  and  soft,  and  pure — my  soul  was  bent 

From  its  dark  purpose  ;  and  I  kissed  its  mouth, 

So  like  thine  own  in  beauty,  and  its  eyes, 

So  dreamy,  deep,  and  soft,  and  wept  such  tears 

As  manhood  knows  but  once.     Oh,  fearfully 

Was  my  ambition  punished !  fearfully 

Was  my  great  wrong  avenged,  when  once  again 

You  crossed  my  threshhold  but  to  faint  and  die, 

Murmuring  the  words  of  bitterest  repentance  ! 

From  that  hour  my  spirit's  chords  were  broken ; 

And  life  holds  nothing  to  enchain  me  here, 

But  my  bright  child — my  Azlea. 


Enter  AZLEA. 

Azlea.  Forgive  thy  child  for  her  unlawful  act ; 
But  coming  out  to  seek  thee,  thy  strange  words 
Roused  all  my  wonder  and  my  sympathy, 
And  I  stood  silently  and  listened. 


154  AZLEA. 


Maz.  Thou  hast  indeed  heard  what  I  never  meant 
Should  reach  thy  youthful  ears.     But  being  so, 
I  must  forgive  thee  for  thy  natural  wish 
To  know  thy  mother's  history.     And  now 
Sit  by  my  side — and  thou  must  talk  to  me ; 
'Twill  soothe  the  feverish  throbbing  of  my  veins, 
And  calm  the  thoughts  the  resurrected  past 
Hath  stirred  within  my  breast. 

Azlea.  .What  I  have  heard 

Is  what  hath  held  thee  here  in  solitude, 
Shunning  the  world,  and  hiding  it  from  me : 
Is  it  not,  father  ? 

Maz.  Yes,  my  Azlea  ; 

I  would  not  have  thee  hear  its  voice  of  guile — 
I  would  not  have  thy  spirit  bear  the  taint 
Of  its  impurities ;  or  have  thy  heart 
Crushed  by  its  withering  sorrows.     I  would  keep 
Thy  soul  as  fresh  and  pure — as  free  from  care — 
As  the  free  bird  of  heaven ;  never  have  thee 
Know  aught  of  any  sorrow ;  never  have  thee 
Know  aught  of  any  passion,  save  thy  love 
For  thy  infirm  old  father.     Azlea, 
I  know  this  must  seem  selfish,  cold,  and  strange  ; 
But  now  thou  knowest  how  my  heart  was  broken, 
Thou  wilt  not  marvel  at  it. 

Azlea.  My  father ! 

I  fain  would  tell  thee  what  must  give  thee  pain, 
But  can  not  bear  to  hear  thy  sorrowing. 
Thy  child  hath  been  forgetful  of  her  promise — 
Hath  told  a  stranger  that  her  foolish  heart 
Cherished  his  image  in  it ;  that  she  deemed 
She  loved  him  with  the  love  he  wished  of  her. 

Maz.  Alas,  alas !  that  this  should  come  so  early ! 
But  my  heart  whispered  that  it  must  be  so ; 
And  now  I  find  its  prophecy  not  idle. 


AZLEA.  155 


Azlea.  0  fear  not  Azlea  can  e'er  be  won 
From  her  obedience ;  or  ever  bring 
Her  father's  hoar  head  sorrowing  to  the  tomb. 
0  no,  no,  no !     She  would  not  e'en  forsake 
For  all  earth's  love,  her  father's  dearer  love, 
Or  leave  him  ever  for  another's  smiles. 

Maz.  Did  I  not  think  this  youth  most  virtuous, 
Lofty,  and  good,  I  should  indeed  be  curst ; 
But  a  few  years,  and  this  consuming  frame 
Shall  have  returned  to  earth,  and.  thou  wilt  be 
A  lonely  orphan,  helpless  on  the  sea 
Of  human  toil  and  striving.     It  may  be  well, 
And  thou  and  I  must  pray  that  it  be  so. 

Azlea.  0  do  not  talk  of  dying ;  ere  that  time 
May  Azlea  have  slept  her  final  sleep.  [Curtain  falls. 


SCENE  II. — A  recess  in  a  forest. 

Enter  HERMON. 

Her.  I  have  wept,  have  prayed,  have  humbled  my  stern 

soul 

In  most  abject  entreaty  before  Heaven  ; 
Have  vowed,  and  fasted,  and  done  penances 
Enough  to  save  a  soul  already  cursed ; 
But  all  is  weak  and  vain  before  the  power 
Of  this  o'ermastering  passion.     And  now 
I  give  the  struggle  over !     If  I  may 
But  win  the  love  of  Azlea,  all  earth, 
All  hell,  shall  strive  in  vain  to  fright  me 
From  my  fixed  purpose.     Heaven  refuses 
Longer  to  oppose  my  wishes,  and  the  fear 
Of  earthly  torments  can  not  now  restrain 
The  passions  of  my  nature.     How  my  soul, 
No  longer  bound  by  vows  of  holiness, 


156  AZLEA. 

Longs  to  give  utterance  to  its  pent-up  feelings ! 
I  could  yell,  could  rave,  and  tear  my  rebel  flesh 
With  fiendish  rage  and  eagerness — so  burn 
The  fires  of  hell  within  me.     Oh,  Azlea ! 
Thy  sweet  young  face  arises  in  my  heart 
With  a  rebuking  coldness ;  thy  pure  look 
Of  calm  and  earnest  sorrow  for  my  grief, 
And  thy  strange,  startled  fearfulness,  when  thou 
Didst  learn  its  sinful  cause,  and  thy  dear  words 
Of  kind  and  holy  counsel,  teaching  me 
What  my  best  days  knew  not  of  holiness — 
How  all  these  memories  reproach  my  sin ! 
But  still  they  feed  the  ever-burning  flame 
Thyself  didst  kindle  by  thy  purity, 
And  coldness  can  not  conquer. 

(A  mysterious  voice  answers.) 

Voice.  Cease,  babbler  ! 

Thine  is  a  passion  vain  as  most  unholy. 

Her.  Who  mocks  me  with  rehearsal  of  my  grief? 
Demon  or  mortal,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 
Say  not  again  what  I  now  know  too  well , 
If  thou  canst  aid  me,  do  it ;  and  if  not, 
Thou  art  the  babbler ! 

Voice.  Dost  thou  not  know  me  ? 

Has  not  my  still  small  voice  whispered  to  thee 
Through  thy  long,  weary  watching  ?     Was  not  night 
Full  of  my  haunting  terrors  ?     Dwelt  I  not 
With  thee  in  silence  and  in  solitude, 
Checking  thy  wayward  nature  ;  and  did  not 
My  warning  keep  thee  sinless  until  now, 
When  thou  hast  thrown  me  from  thee  ?     Now  I  go, 
But  in  my  stead  shall  come  another  spirit, 
Who  shall  possess  thy  being. 

2d  Voice.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Thy  monitor  is  easily  scared  away ; 
Thou  needest  one  less  timid. 
14 


AZLEA.  157 


Her.  Fiend,  away ! 

Comest  tbou  to  exult  o'er  vanquished  conscience  ? 
I  am  sufficient  torment  to  myself 
Without  thy  hellish  aid  ;  away  !  away  ! 

2c?  Voice.  Bid  me  not  go  away  ;  I  am  a  part 
Of  thy  inseparable  self — dark  restlessness. 
I  too  have  haunted  thee  in  midnight  watches ; 
I  too  have  peopled  solitude  with  forms 
Fearful  and  black  as  gloom  ;  have  worn  out  virtue 
With  my  perpetual  importunities. 
Nay,  Hermon,  I  am  too  much  part  of  thee 
To  leave  thee  to  still  musings  and  reflection. 

Her.  Oh,  thou  tormenting  spirit !  let  thy  voice 
Rest  for  one  hour,  that  my  vexed  soul  may  find 
Repose  from  thy  incessant  torturing. 
Is't  not  enough  that  I  am  what  I  am, 
Traitor  to  Heaven,  and  curst  upon  the  earth, 
Without  the  object  for  which  all  was  lost, 
But  thou  must  scourge  me  thus  ? 

2d  Voice.  .        The  object — ay, 

And  when  shall  she  reward  thee  ?     Answer  me. 

Her.  Goad  not  my  soul  to  madness  with  thy  taunts, 
If  mad  I  am  not  now  ;  it  seems  to  me 
That  my  brain  is  on  fire,  and  my  heart  burns 
With  a  devouring  flame.     0  that  Azlea 
Could  for  one  hour  feel  my  tormenting  pangs, 
Then  Hermon  would  be  pitied. 

2d  Voice.  She  would  not 

Yield,  as  thou  hast  done  ;  in  her  gentle  soul 
I  might  wear  out  the  life,  but  virtue  never. 

Her.  Again,  again  you  taunt  me.     Fiend,  away  ! 
My  brain  is  crazed  with  torment— I  am  mad  !      [Rushes  out. 


158 


AZLEA. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I. — Rome.     A  gallery. 
Enter  ALVERNON,  pausing  before  a  picture. 

Alver.  Bright  being  !  how  beautiful  thou  art ! 
Not  many  days  shall  pass  ere  I  behold 
The  bright  original.     How  in  my  heart 
Hurries  the  quick,  impatient  pulse  of  love ! 
Dear  Azlea !  thou  hast  been  my  charm 
Against  the  sins  and  follies  of  the  world ; 
And  mayst  thou  ever  be  my  guardian  spirit. 
Lovely,  and  loving,  and  beloved,  thou  art 
Worthy  a  mortal's  worship  ! 

Enter  Citizens. 

1st  Cit  Ha  !  thou  hast 

Completed  a  new  picture.     Beautiful ! 
Methinks  that  face  is  one  that  I  have  seen  ; 
Those  eyes — the  same  sweet  mouth,  dimpled  and  full ; 
The  brow  so  strangely  pure,  so  like  clear  pearl, 
Rounded  and  smooth,  with  the  fine  azure  veins 
Just  clouding  its  translucency;  the  turn 
Of  the  fine  head,  whose  clustering  curls  of  gold 
And  brown  inwoven  shadow  a  neck  of  snow ; 
The  lovely  arm ;  ah  !  it  is  very  strange, 
But  she  does  seem  like  one  that  I  have  seen. 

2d  Cit.  Bravo !  good  Claudio,  hast  fallen  in  love  ? 

1st  Cit.  No,  but  you  will,  when  you  have  looked  on  this. 
Triuli,  hast  thou  never  seen  this  creature 
Of  wondrous  loveliness  in  life  ? 


2d  Cit.  What,  her  ? 

Now,  by  the  saints,  you're  right !  this  is  Viola, 
The  wonderful  singer,  who  some  years  ago 


AZLEA. 


159 


Set  all  Rome  mad  with  love.     I've  seen  her  picture 
In  the  gallery  of  a  gentleman 
Who  told  me  her  sad  story. 

1st  Cit.  What  was  it? 

2c?  Cit.  I  have  no  mind  to  tell  it ;  it  brings  tears, 
And  tears  shame  men  like  us  ;  it  was  a  tale 
Of  love,  desertion,  crime,  and  sorrowful  death. 

1st  Cit.  A  common  story.     But  is  this  a  copy 
Of  that  same  picture,  gentle  Alvernon  ? 

Alver.  Tis  one  I  took  from  memory. 

1st  Cit.  Hast  thou 

Then  seen  the  fair  original  ? 

Alver.  Of  this  I  have. 

2(7  Cit.  He  never  saw  Viola,  he's  too  young  ; 
She  was  the  wife  of  Mazarini,  who 
Now  lives  in  solitude  ;  you've  heard  his  airs ; 
They  are  the  finest  on  the  Roman  stage — 
So  wild,  and  grand,  and  full  of  melody. 
I  hear  he  has  a  daughter ;  if  she  sings 
As  did  her  mother,  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  the  world  finds  her  out.     I  would  go 
Full  thirty  leagues  to  see  her  smile,  and  hear 
The  witchery  of  her  voice. 

1st  Cit.  'Tis  you,  now, 

Who  talks  the  lover,  and  not  Claudio. 

2d  Cit.  Hast  heard  of  the  commotion  in  the  church  ? 
One  of  the  members  of  a  stern,  strict  order, 
Hath  lately  been  deemed  mad  ;  and  whisperings, 
And  vague  reports  of  what  hath  been  the  cause, 
Have  much  disturbed  the  holy  brethren. 

1st  Cit.  Why  ?  do  they  think  a  monk  should  not  go  mad  ? 


160  AZLEA. 


2d  Cit.  They  do  believe  them  not  so  liable 
To  mortal  ailments  as  most  other  men, 
Who  yield  them  to  their  natures. 

1st  Cit.  May  they  not 

Have  passions  as  us  sinners,  only  hidden, 
And  kept  down  by  hard  penance  ?  and  may  not 
The  very  suppression  of  a  mighty  nature 
Make  monks  mad,  like  all  other  men? 

2c?  Cit.  The  world 

Hath  whispered  such  may  be  the  cause ;  and  this 
Hath  reached  the  church,  who  liketh  not  to  bear 
The  imputation  of  such  weaknesses, 
And  it  is  said  the  maniac  will  be  tried. 

1st  Cit.  Is  he  in  Rome  ? 

2d  Cit.  At  present  he  is  not, 

And  I  believe  he  has  long  lived  alone, 
Shunning  both  church  and  world. 

1st  Cit.  And  this  is  why 

They  think  him  void  of  reason  ?  he  may  prove 
Too  cunning  for  them  yet — thinkest  thou  not  so  ? 

2d  Cit.  'Tis  true,  there  may  be  "method  in  his  madness;" 
But  I  have  business  in  the  public  mart.         \Exeunt  Citizens. 

Alvernon.  {Soliloquizing.} 

This  news  affects  me,  yet  I  know  not  why  ; 
But  ever  when  I  think  on  Azlea, 
Like  a  disturbing  vision,  Hermon  rises, 
And  darkens  the  sweet  picture  with  his  shade. 
Oh,  I  must  hasten.     As  an  invisible  chain, 
A  strange  desire,  like  a  presentiment, 
Hurries  me  to  thy  side,  my  Azlea. 


AZLEA.  161 


SCENE  II. — Sea-shore. 

Enter  AZLEA. 

Azlea.  0  can  it  be  that  Alvernon  is  false — 
That  he  hath  ceased  to  think  of  the  weak  girl 
So  easily  won  into  love's  confidence  ? 
Two  summers,  one  of  joy  and  one  of  woe, 
Have  flitted  o'er  my  brow,  bringing  to  it 
A  deeper  shade  of  thought,  and  to  my  heart 
Full  many  an  earnest  lesson  ;  yet  he  conies  not  ! 
My  father,  thou  wert  right  to  mourn  the  fate 
That  threw  thy  child  in  the  enticing  way 
To  the  young  heart's  sweet  love — for  sweet  it  is, 
Though  crowned  with  wildest  sorrow.     I  have  been 
The  sport  of  a  strange  fortune,  and  did  not 
A  doating  father  live  to  mourn  his  child, 
Death  and  the  grave  could  not  too  speedily  come. 
If  one  I  loved  were  at  this  moment  here, 
To  close  my  eyes  when  they  had  looked  their  last, 
Long,  lingering  glance  of  love ;  to  kiss 
The  breath,  the  last  shall  pass  these  lips,  away, 
As  it  was  spent  sighing  love's  farewell, 
Oh,  I  could  shut  my  eyes  upon  the  earth, 
And  close  its  beauty  out  without  a  sigh ! 
Love  !  love !  love !  'tis  strange  the  world  doth  fling 
So  much  of  the  heart's  treasures  to  the  winds, 
Treating  them  as  the  playthings  of  an  hour. 

Enter  HERMON. 

Her.  Oh,  Azlea  !  have  I  met  thee  again  ? 
This  is  a  wilder  anguish,  wilder  joy, 
Than  I  have  known  for  months  ;  to  gaze  again 
Upon  thy  loveliness,  again  to  hear 
The  music  of  thy  voice — delicious  torture  ! 
0  I  have  longed  for  this  ;  have  sat  at  night, 
With  darkness  all  around  me,  without  sleep, 


AZLEA. 

To  wish  I  could  behold  thee  once  again. 
Day  after  day,  I've  trod  these  shores  with  hope 
That  once  you  would  return  to  your  old  haunts, 
And  I  might  look  on  you  from  my  retreat. 

Azlea.  Hermon,  0  why  pursue  me  ? 
Is  not  my  life  poisoned  with  thoughts  of  thee  ? 
Do  you  not,  now  you  view  me, 
The  work  of  weariness  and  sorrow  see  ? 

Her.  Thou  thickest  of  me,  Azlea,  but  thy  thoughts 
Are  cold  and  shrinking — not  of  tenderness. 
Why  mock  me  with  the  mention  of  such  thoughts  ? 
Vainly  and  long  I've  striven,  until  I 
Can  strive  no  longer ;  and  my  only  hope 
Is  in  thy  pitying  gentleness.     Then 
Think  of  me  as  of  earth's  other  children ; 
Sinful,  'tis  true,  but  not  without  a  hope 
That  Heaven  will  pardon,  wilt  thou  but  only  save. 

Azlea.       Hermon,  I  see  thee  ever, 
Like  a  dark  spirit,  filling  every  vision ; 

Making  my  heart's  blood  shiver 
With  thy  dark  smile,  and  lip  of  wild  derision. 

Thine  eyes,  so  stern  and  strange, 
Burn  through  night's  darkness,  and  out-glare  the  day ; 

Nor  time,  nor  place,  nor  change, 
Dims  the  wild  brightness  of  their  haunting  ray. 

Thou  art  become  a  fear — 
A  dim  and  shadowy  terror  everywhere 

Filling  the  atmosphere, 
Whose  power  I  can  not  banish,  even  in  prayer! 

Her.  Forbear  !  say  not  again  those  maddening  words  ! 
They  stir  within  my  bosom  hotter  fires 
Than  burn  in  the  dominions  of  eternal  death ! 
If  thou  hast  seen  me,  Azlea,  in  thy  dreams, 
Waking  and  sleeping,  'twas  because  my  soul 


AZLEA.  163 


Was  in  thy  keeping.     It  will  follow  thee  ; 

'Tis  linked  with  thine  existence,  and  will  go 

Whither  thou  goest.     When  thou  art  by  the  sea, 

Mark  how  the  tides  obey  their  heavenly  queen  ; 

Beautiful  mystery  !     Thus,  by  some  influence 

Which  you  may  never  learn  to  understand, 

My  spirit  follows  thine.     If  in  visions 

My  look  is  stern,  or  even  dark  and  fierce, 

Think  of  the  fires  that  make  life  agony, 

And  marvel  if  thou  canst,  that  they  should  shine 

Through  my  distorted  features.     I  tell  thee 

Thou  canst  not  measure  with  thine  utmost  thought 

The  depth  of  my  wild  passion. 

Azlea.       This  is  why  I  fear  thee : 

My  different  spirit  shrinks  away  with  dread, 

And  shuddereth  to  see 
The  fierce,  wild  passions  by  seclusion  fed, 

And  nourished  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  deep  cloister,  and  the  dim  recess 

Of  monastery  and  tomb, 
Till  this  mad  phrensy  is  called  love's  excess  ! 

Her.  No  more,  no  more !     True,  in  my  burning  brain 
Are  thoughts  of  phrensied  wildness ;  but  say  not 
They  are  the  offspring  of  dark  phantasy, 
Nurtured  in  silence  and  dim  solitude. 
When  first  I  saw  thee  on  this  wild  sea- shore — 
So  frail  and  youthful,  yet  alone,  amid 
A  scene  for  older  hearts  and  stronger  minds 
To  gaze  and  muse  upon ;  and  when  I  heard 
Nature's  sweet  poetry  in  every  word, 
And  saw,  and  knew,  thy  high  and  holy  heart 
Beating  in  unison  with  the  mighty  pulse 
In  the  great  heart  of  nature — then  I  knew 
There  was  a  love  angels  themselves  might  share, 
Nor  wrong  their  heavenly  nature.     Such  was  mine  ; 
But  when,  day  after  day,  and  night  on  night, 


164  AZLEA. 


That  flame  burnt  like  Cain's  offering,  in  vain — 

Then  like  him,  a  strange  madness  seized  my  heart — 

And  then  I  felt  a  brand  upon  my  brow, 

Which  I  did  deem  the  curse  of  angry  Heaven 

For  violated  vows.     And  then  I  bowed 

My  soul  in  bitterness  of  tears,  and  mourned. 

But  when  again  I  lifted  up  my  brow, 

Azlea  was  in  my  sight;  and  from  that  hour 

I  have  not  known  another  joy  in  life, 

But  the  dark,  bitter  joy  of  unblest  love — 

By  Heaven  unsanctioned,  and  unreturned  on  earth  ! 

But  even  by  Heaven  rejected,  I  am  still 

Only  as  other  men ;  and  like  them  I 

Might  love  an  earthly  love  and  yet  be  blest, 

Had  I  not  found  thee  so  unreachable — 

So  strangely  passionless  and  coldly  pure. 

Azlea.  Thy  dreadful  glances,  and  thy  wilder  words, 
Freeze  the  warm  life-tide  in  my  very  heart ; 
Oh,  leave  me,  Hermon,  while  my  senses  last ! 

Her.  Ha,  ha!  thy  senses  fail  thee,  do  they?     This 
Will  be  delight,  to  bear  thee  in  my  arms, 
And  chafe  thy  pearly  brow,  and  woo  the  tint 
Back  to  thy  pearly  cheek,  with  many  a  kiss 
Upon  thy  lips  of  coral — ah,  thou  fliest ! 

Azlea.  Away  !  away !  Oh,  Virgin  Mary,  save  me ! 
Protect  me,  Heaven — oh,  save  me — he  is  mad  !  [Flies. 

Her.  Azlea — once  more,  wilt  thou  be  mine  ? 

[Pursues  and  seizes  her. 

Azlea.  0  God,  I  can  not  say  it  \ 

Her.  Then  thou  shalt  never  say  it  to  another ; 
The  sea  shall  fold  thee  in  its  cold  embrace, 
And  thou  shalt  nestle  in  its  deep,  dark  bosom. 

[Bears  her  fainting  to  the  edge  of  the  rock,  and  casts  her 
into  the  sea. 


AZLEA.  16,' 


Down,  down,  down ;  thy  look  is  strangely  calm ! 
Thou  goest  to  thy  last  rest,  as  a  child 
Upon  its  mother's  bosom  sinks  to  sleep. 

Enter  ALVERNON. 
Alver.  Ha !  hideous  demon,  where  is  Azlea  ? 

Her.  By  Heaven,  this  is  Alvernon !  now  I  know 
Why  Hermon  sued  in  vain.     Look  !  gaze  full  long 
Upon  her  sea-deep  cradle !     She,  sweet  child, 
Is  far  beyond  the  reach  of  your  weak  arm. 

Alver.  Answer  me,  fiend  !  hast  thou  slain  Azlea  ? 
Monster !  now  thou  shalt  die. 

Her.  Not  by  thy  arm ; 

I  go  to  meet  thy  Azlea,  while  thou 
Must  tarry  here  alone :  dost  envy  me  ? 

[Plunges  into  the  sea. 

Alver.  Was  there  a  God  in  heaven  when  this  was  done  ? 

[Cur  tain  falls. 

SCENE  III. — A  room  in  MAZARINI'S  house.  AZLEA  stretched  on  a 
bier.  ALVERNON  kneeling  beside  it,  his  face  hidden  in  the  pall. 
MAZARINI  chanting  a  low,  wild  dirge  on  his  harp. 

DIRGE. 

Once,  my  mournful  harp,  and  never 
Shall  thy  strings  to  sadness  shiver ; 
Never  more  with  anguish  quiver 

Breaking  with  thy  moan. 
Once  more  sound  for  me  in  sorrow, 
One  low,  dirge-like  strain ;  to-morrow 

Hushed  will  be  thy  tone. 


166  AZLEA. 


Earth  is  swiftly,  dimly  fleeting, 
Time  my  funeral  march  is  beating — 
Life  and  death  a  spectral  meeting 

Holding  o'er  the  bier ; 
Wo  is  me  !  is  there  no  waking  ? 
Utter  has  been  my  forsaking, 

On  this  joyless  sphere. 

One  by  one  life's  chords  have  broken, 
Giving  to  my  heart  the  token, 
Clear  and  fearful,  though  unspoken, 

Of  its  wasted  strength  ; 
Now  the  last  frail  tie  hath  parted — 
To  the  goal  from  whence  it  started, 

Life  returns  at  length. 

Oh,  how  wildly  hath  it  striven, 
Till  the  spirit,  crushed  and  riven, 
Waited,  grieving,  for  the  heaven 

Of  the  loved  and  lost ; 
Dreamy  visions  o'er  me  stealing, 
Close  the  avenues  of  feeling — 

Life  and  grief  are  past !  [Dies. 


POEMS 


BT 


METTA     VICTORIA     FULLER 


POEMS 

BY  METTA  VICTORIA  FULLER 

("  SINGING     SYBIL.") 


THE    POET    LOVERS. 

I  WILL  string  my  harp  with  its  sweetest  strings, 

And  will  sit  me  at  thy  feet, 
And  my  hand  shall  waken  a  strain  for  thee 

That  is  swellingly  wild  and  sweet. 
Look  down !  look  down !  on  the  waves  of  song 

As  they  rise,  and  fall,  and  die — 
Do  you  not  see  my  wordless  thoughts 

Like  barks  glide  murmuring  by  ? 
Like  fairy  boats  they  are  sweeping  on 

To  a  measure  slow  and  rare, 
And  a  beautiful  troop  of  aery  dreams 

Is  the  light  freight  which  they  bear. 
Does  not  each  troop  as  it  glideth  past 

To  your  eye  familiar  seem  ? 
'Tis  from  thy  tone,  thy  smile,  thy  glance, 

I  have  fashioned  every  dream. 
Those  with  the  wings  of  shining  gold 

That  are  quivering  for  their  flight, 
Those  I  wove  when  thy  earnest  tones 

Told  of  the  future  bright. 
Those  with  the  starry  brows,  and  pure, 

So  calm,  and  placid,  and  fair, 
Steal  to  my  heart  when  you  whisper  low 

Your  love  on  the  still  night  air. 

15 


170 


THE    POET    LOVERS. 


That  faint  and  shadowy  phantom-band, 

Distant,  and  dim,  and  strange, 
Who  link  their  hands  in  a  mystic  wreath 

And  flit,  and  follow,  and  change — 
Those  came  to  me  in  thy  musing  moods, 

When  I  sat  as  I'm  sitting  now, 
And  marked  the  creeping  of  light  and  shade 

O'er  the  pride  of  thy  kingly  brow. 
Swell  on  !  swell  on  !  ye  rippling  waves, 

And  rise,  and  fall,  and  die ! 
Bend  down  thy  gaze,  0  eloquent  one  ! 

While  the  bark  of  our  love  sweeps  by. 
See  !  see — but  my  hand  is  still, 

Which  over  the  harp-strings  stole — 
The  beautiful  dream  of  our  love  and  faith 

Is  life  to  my  thrilling  soul. 
I  dare  not  trust  it  to  music's  power — 

I  should  die  if  it  left  my  breast — 
Flow  back,  soft  river  of  melody ! 

Flow  back,  ye  visions  blest !" 

She  ceased — and  laid  aside  her  silver  lyre, 
And  raised  her  lustrous  eyes  slowly  and  softly 
To  her  listener's  face.     Then,  as  they  met 
His  eloquent  gaze  of  answering  love, 
They  deepened,  darkened,  drooped,  until  a  fringe 
Of  silken  lashes  met  the  tell-tale  glow 
Of  the  fresh  crimson  in  her  delicate  cheek. 
He  bent,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head, 
Amid  the  masses  of  her  rich,  bright  hair, 
And,  with  half  hesitating  tenderness, 
Pressed  his  proud  lip  upon  her  pure,  young  brow — 
And  raised  her  from  the  cushions  at  his  feet 
And  placed  her  by  his  side,  with  her  bright  cheek 
Upon  his  bosom,  and  her  flowing  curls 
Covering  his  heart  with  a  soft,  shining  cloud. 

"Thy  dreams  are  beautiful,  my  sweet  Adel, 
And  with  exquisite  grace  this  little  hand 


THE    POET    LOVERS. 


Has  lingered  o'er  the  harp,  till  its  rich  swell 
Brought  round  us  of  thy  dreams  a  lovely  band. 

I  have  so  learned  the  witchery  of  thy  lyre, 
That  I  can  read  thy  every  wordless  thought, 

As  it  melts  softly  from  the  silver  wire, 

With  the  deep  eloquence  of  music  fraught. 

"Adel!  Adel !  how  shall  I  thank  my  God, 

That  He  hath  given  such  a  rich  gift  to  me  ? 
Thy  very  perfectness  my  soul  hath  awed — 

So  blend  rare  gifts  and  loveliness  in  thee ! 
Thou  art  my  soul's  sweet,  starry,  radiant  light ! 

Thou  art  the  life  of  its  impassioned  dream ! 
I've  seen  thee  ever  when  I  slept  at  night — 

A  part  of  my  past  life  thy  love  doth  seem. 

"  Though  but  a  few  sweet  months  since  we  have  met, 

It  is  long  years  since  a  fair  vision  stole, 
With  deep,  soft  eyes,  which  I  could  not  forget, 

Into  the  inner  chamber  of  my  soul ; 
And  with  a  spiritual  smile  on  her  young  face, 

Began  low  music  from  a  lyre  to  start, 
And  thrilled  my  heart  with  her  exceeding  grace, 

And  thenceforth  of  my  being  was  a  part. 

"  She  had  a  brow  like  thine — such  rich,  brown  hair — 

And  just  such  eyes — so  fathomless  and  soft, 
And  such  a  drooping  of  their  curtains  fair, 

And  such  a  changing  color  had  they  oft. 
She  had  such  lips — as  freshly  sweet  were  they — 

As  tremulous  with  eloquence  unexpressed ! 
And  such  a  low,  sweet  voice,  and  winning  way, 

And  cheek  whose  color  never  was  at  rest. 

"  When  I  saw  thee,  in  all  thy  breathing  grace, 

Stand  with  clasped  hands  by  the  fair  river-side, 
And  caught  the  look  upon  thy  upturned  f  ice, 
I  knew — I  knew  thou  wert  my  spirit-bride ! 


172 


THE    POET    LOVERS. 


Dost  thou  remember  how  I  sprang  to  thee, 

Forgetful  of  thy  timid,  maiden  fear, 
And  clasped  thee  to  my  heart  in  ecstasy, 

Even  as  I  fold  thee  now,  beloved  one,  here ; 

"  And  the  low,  hurried,  agitated  tone 

With  which  I  strove  to  soothe  thy  pale  affright — 
And  told  thee  my  strange  love — called  thee  my  own — 

And  kissed  that  brow,  so  holy,  sweet,  and  white ; 
And  how  the  color  came  again  more  bright, 

And  deepened  on  thy  beautiful  young  cheek — 
And  to  thine  eye  a  timid  wondering  light, 

That  spoke  more  sweetly  than  thy  lips  could  speak  ? 

"  0  how  I  bless  thee !  how  I  reverence 

The  pure  and  perfect  trust  of  thy  young  mind — 
The  guileless,  unsuspecting  innocence 

Which  sought  not  in  my  love  deceit  to  find ! 
Look  up,  Adel !  that  I  may  read  the  eyes 

Which  timidly  beneath  those  lashes  hide — 
The  deep,  deep  love  which  in  their  glances  lies 

Will  tell  its  trembling  tale,  my  gentle  bride." 

If  ye  of  doubting  faith  and  sneering  lips 
Could  have  been  there  that  instant — could  have  seen 
That  momentary  glance,  so  brimming  o'er 
With  all  the  unspeakable  truthfulness 
And  love  of  two  young,  holy  hearts — both  pure, 
Both  high,  both  rich  in  the  soul's  eloquence — 
Your  scorn  would  have  been  lost  in  sweet  surprise, 
And  your  cold  sophistry  been  hushed  by  joy 
To  find  love  was  a  thing  so  beautiful ! 

That  fair  young  creature  with  the  dewy  eyes, 
Laid  her  small  hand  upon  his  lofty  brow 
Caressingly,  and  said : 


THE    POET    LOVERS.  173 


"  The  happiness  of  my  full  heart 

When  in  thy  presence  it  doth  stay, 
Hath  always  driven  every  thought 

Of  other  years  away  ; 
But  in  thy  absence  I  have  deemed — 

And  when  thou  art  here  I  still  forget — 
That  I  would  ask  thee  of  thy  life 

Before  we  haply  met. 
I  know  by  thy  high,  princely  brow, 

And  by  thy  proudly  fervid  eye, 
And  by  thy  winning  eloquence, 
Thy  destiny  was  high." 

'  Well,  listen,  love,  and  I  will  tell  a  part — 

All  that  I  think  of  in  my  wayward  life, 
Before  it  found  a  home  in  thy  pure  heart, 

Secure  from  restlessness  and  pain  and  strife : 
When  thou  art  wearied,  close  thy  starry  eyes, 

And  I  will  cease  to  prate  of  sterner  themes, 
And  sing  to  thee  such  quaint,  old  melodies 

As  will  fill  thy  soft  sleep  with  radiant  dreams. 

;  I  was  ambitious  once  !  a  thought  of  fame 

Filled  all  my  spirit  with  a  restless  pain, 
And  all  I  sighed  for  was  a  deathless  name ! 

By  day  and  night  that  sound  haunted  my  brain, 
Until  my  pulses  caught  my  heart's  unrest, 

And  on  my  forehead  burned  a  feverish  heat, 
And  a  strange  fire  seemed  kindled  in  my  breast 

Which  rose  and  quivered  with  its  every  beat. 

!But  how  to  win  the  deathlessness  I  sought 

Was  what  I  mused  on  in  the  midnight  hour — 
Until  there  came  a  grand,  aspiring  thought 

Of  oratory's  irresistible  power. 
The  sudden  thought  was  eager,  wild,  and  high, 

Yet  proudly  swelled  my  strong  and  restless  soul,- 
I  felt  the  fire  flash  from  my  kindling  eye, 

While  to  my  burning  lip  a  quiver  stole. 


174  THE    POET    LOVERS. 


"  And  soon  I  stood  before  a  listening  throng — 

Eager  to  criticise,  to  praise,  deride — 
And  poured  the  fervor  forth,  restrained  so  long, 

In  one  impassioned  and  impetuous  tide. 
0  there  is  nothing  upon  earth  more  proud, 

More  high,  more  flattering  to  the  swelling  soul, 
Than  to  chain  every  passion  of  the  crowd, 

And  with  one  word  their  sympathies  control ! 

"  To  feel  that  you  can  sway  them  with  a  breath ! 

And  bind  them  with  the  mighty  thoughts  you  make ! 
To  awe  them  into  silence  deep  as  death, 

Or  from  their  lips  responsive  echoes  wake ! 
To  hear  a  thousand  tongues  one  answer  speak ! 

To  make  a  thousand  weep  with  one  low  tone ! 
To  see  the  changing  of  each  earnest  cheek, 

Which  flushes  or  grows  paler  with  your  own ! 

"Yes  !  there  is  glorious  triumph  in  that  hour, 

That  would  the  wildest  dream  of  fame  repay — 
Thus  to  feel  conscious  of  your  own  great  power, 

And  thus  with  burning  eloquence  to  sway 
The  hearts  of  others,  as  the  waves  obey 

The  wind  that  stirs  them !  while  beneath  your  eve 
All  passions  and  all  feelings  powerless  lay, 

Moved  by  the  lifting  of  your  hand  on  high  ! 

"  And  I  have  felt  this  triumph !  have  seen  all 

Hang  eager  on  the  dropping  of  a  word, 
With  such  a  silence  through  the  lofty  hall, 

That  scarce  a  breath  the  intense  stillness  stirred  ! 
Have  stood,  and  with  a  motion  or  a  word 

Hushed  each  heart- throbbing,  fixed  each  careless  eye  ! 
The  shout  of  the  tumultuous  band  have  heard 

Swell  upward  wild  and  deaf'ning  to  the  sky ! 

"  But  when  I  stole  away  from  their  acclaim, 

And  sought  my  silent  chamber,  lone  and  still, 


THE    POET    LOVERS.  175 


And  said  to  my  proud  heart — '  And  this  is  fame !' 

It  only  answered  with  a  feverish  thrill. 
And  so  I  turned  away  from  that  I  sought, 

And  poured  my  soul  out  on  the  poet's  lyre, 
And  much  of  bliss  and  much  of  pain  it  brought. 

Shall  I  tell  further,  love  ? — or  dost  thou  tire  ?" 

"  Do  the  angels  ever  weary 

Of  the  strains  they  hear  above  ? 
Tell  me  how  the  poet's  myrtles 
Shone  among  thy  ringlets,  love." 

"  Upon  a  placid  brow  their  leaves  did  shine, 

But  my  wild  heart  was  burning  fire  beneath, 
Because  I  strove  Ambition's  thorns  to  twine 

Among  the  gentler  blossoms  of  my  wreath  ; 
One  great  thought  struggled  upward  in  my  soul, 

As  the  sea  heaves  toward  heav'n — that  thought  of 

fame  ! 
And  the  deep  music  of  its  surging  roll 

The  world  called  song !— its  echo  was  a  name  ! 

"  The  sound  was  hollow,  and  my  brain  soon  burned 

To  hear  it  ever  ringing  in  my  ear. 
Ambition  was  a  mocker !  and  I  spurn'd 

What  I  had  sought  for  as  a  prize  most  dear ! 
In  this  deep  restlessness  I  ever  yearned 

For  something,  which  I  knew  not  then  was  love, 
And  my  soul's  sea  a  saddened  brow  upturned, 

And  murmured  ever  to  the  stars  above. 

"  'Twas  then  that  vision  stole  into  my  breast, 

So  spiritual,  so  perfect,  pure,  and  sweet ; 
And  all  in  glad  surprise,  I  thought  how  blest 

Would  my  life  be  if  I  could  only  meet, 
Within  this  breathing  world,  a  creature  rare, 

Like  that  so  exquisite,  so  young,  so  bright ; 
With  such  a  gift  of  song — such  forehead  fair — 

Such  proud,  pure  eyes,  full  of  deep,  shadowy  light ! 


I 


THE    POET    LOVERS. 


"  The  vision  haunted  me  !  and  soon  became 

A  part  of  every  thought  and  hope  in  life — 
And  I  forgot  the  mockery  of  fame — 

Its  followers,  its  bitterness,  its  strife — 
And  went  forth  with  a  wildly  thrilling  heart 

To  seek,  and  find,  and  wed  my  spirit-love, 
Whose  sweet  face  of  my  dreaming  was  a  part, 

Whose  spiritual  grace  seemed  stolen  from  above. 

"  I  went  abroad — and  wandered  far  and  long 

£> 

In  search  of  her — my  blessed  spirit-bride  ; 
I  mingled  in  full  many  a  brilliant  throng, 

Where  were  assembled  loveliness  and  pride. 
Bewildering  eyes  looked  softly  into  mine — 

Bright  lips  breathed  low,  sweet  music  on  the  air; 
Rich  tresses  their  luxuriant  wealth  did  twine 

Around  young  brows  most  eloquently  fair. 

!t  And  peerless  forms  with  gliding  steps  went  by ; 

And  softer  beauty  stole  behind  the  while ; 
And  dazzling  haughtiness  before  my  eye 

Melted  its  cunning  lip  into  a  smile. 
Bewildering  sweetness  slept  like  a  still  dream 
Upon  pure  foreheads  stainless  as  the  snow ; 
And  deep,  dark  eyes  looked  out  with  dewy  gleam 
From  timid  lashes  lifted  soft  and  slow. 

"  But  not  the  breathing  charm  of  glowing  lips, 

Nor  the  magnificence  of  midnight  eyes, 
Nor  brows  which  did  the  pearls  they  wore  eclipse, 

Nor  the  mute  eloquence  which  sometimes  lies 
Within  a  smile,  nor  the  exquisite  grace 

Of  tiny  feet  upon  rich  carpets  prest, 
Could  take  away  the  beautiful  young  face 

Whose  holy  sweetness  lay  within  my  breast. 

"Wearied  with  searching  for  its  owner  there, 
Amid  such  haunts  of  splendor  and  of  pride, 


THE    POET    LOVERS.  177 


I  left  the  crowded  halls,  whose  beings  rare 
But  made  me  sigh  for  my  own  perfect  bride. 

Then  in  each  lovely  clime  I  wandered  long, 

With  thoughts  to  meet  her  in  some  land  of  flowers- 

Perchance,  in  '  Italy's  bright  land  of  song,' 

Or  'neath  the  starry  blossoms  of  Spain's  bowers. 

"  I  never  wandered  where  the  skies  were  bright, 

Or  where  the  roses  seemed  to  be  more  fair, 
Nor  stood  where  ruined  fanes  rose  on  the  sight ; 

Nor  thrilled  to  gaze  upon  some  sunset  rare, 
Nor  climbed  to  some  sublime  or  dizzy  height, 

Nor  marked  a  river  rolling  in  its  pride, 
Nor  mused  on  the  still  splendor  of  the  night, 

But  that  I  wished  thee,  sweet  one,  at  my  side. 

"  Three  years  stole  down  into  my  spirit's  halls, 

Bringing  rich  jewels  on  their  flowing  dress, 
And  made  them  there  a  home,  whose  pictured  walls 

Glowed  with  the  rarest  tints  of  loveliness. 
Soft  skies,  and  tinted  clouds,  and  golden  air, 

And  shadowy  haunts,  and  dimpled  waves  of  light, 
And  scenes  of  deep  sublimity  were  there, 

Mingled  with  broken  gleams  of  all  things  bright. 

"  And  that  one  image  !  but  its  counterpart 

I  sought  for  vainly  in  each  sunny  spot ; 
Yet  with  a  deeper  feeling  my  wild  heart 

Clung  to  the  thought  that  would  not  be  forgot. 
Then  homeward  to  my  own  sweet  land  I  turned — 

Blessed  be  the  stars  that  light  it  from  above ! 
Blessed  every  heart  which  ever  toward  it  yearned, 

For  here  I  met  thee,  0  sweet  spirit-love ! 

"  And  when  I  saw  thee,  heard  thee,  clasped  thee  first — 

Held  thee,  thyself,  unto  my  thrilling  breast, 
The  wild  delirium  of  joy  that  burst 

Upon  my  soul,  words  never  have  expressed ! 


ITS  THE    POET    LOVERS. 


The  deepest  eloquence  that  language  owns — 
The  richest  power  of  music,  ne'er  can  tell, 

Since  that  sweet  hour  when  first  I  heard  thy  tones, 
How  dear  thou  art  to  me,  my  own  Adel !" 


PART    SECOND. 


The  lovers  parted  for  a  little  time — 
Oh,    hapless  parting !     Yet  one  had  but  gone 
To  make  a  Paradise  for  his  young  bride — 
To  gather  birds  and  flowers  to  his  home — 
To  hang  his  palace  walls  with  pictures  rare — 
To  place  rich  gifts  and  music  in  her  room — 
To  load  the  polished  shelves  with  choicest  books, 
And  blend  refinement  with  the  lavish  wealth 
Profusely  scattered  through  that  lovely  home ! 
And  when  the  fruit  hung  golden  on  the  trees, 
And  the  bright  air  of  autumn  wound  the  leaves 
Whose  gorgeous  hues  robed  earth  in  loveliness, 
And  made  soft,  dreamy  shadows  on  her  breast, 
And  all  the  air  was  full  of  a  sweet  sound 
Made  by  their  rustling  music,  then  was  he 
To  claim  the  mistress  of  that  fairy  place. 

Adel  was  slowly  pacing  ta  and  fro 
Upon  a  green  bank  by  the  river-side, 
Where  first  they  met.     The  faint  wind  waved  her  hair, 
And  sent  the  leaflets  fluttering  to  her  feet, 
That  like  bright  butterflies,  perched  on  the  trees 
And  humming  to  each  other,  swung  above. 
Her  tiny  footsteps  heedless  pressed  them  down 
Into  the  mossy  turf ;  and  those  bright  curls 
Wore  not  the  glowing  wreath  she  loved  to  weave 
Of  autumn  glory,  in  her  idle  hours, 
Was  that  young  creature,  with  the  musing  step, 
Dreaming  of  future  happiness  and  love — 
Dwelling  upon  the  coming  bridal  hour — 


THE    POET    LOVERS.  179 

Her  heart  all  trembling  with  delicious  joy 
Mingled  with  timid  fears  ? 

Upon  that  brow, 

So  proud  and  pure,  and  once  so  shadowless, 
A  troubled  darkness  lay ;  the  sweet  young  lip 
Would  quiver  for  a  moment,  and  then  grow 
As  still  and  mute  as  marble ;  and  her  cheek 
Was  whiter  than  a  lily's,  and  her  eyes, 
When  ever  and  anon  she  raised  them  up, 
As  if  beseechingly  to  the  blue  sky, 
Were  dark  with  an  expression  of  despair 
And  an  unspoken  anguish.     Tightly  twined 
Were  her  small,  slender  fingers,  with  a  clasp 
That  pressed  the  crimson  blood  most  painfully 
Through  their  clear  nails. 

In  broken  murmurings 

From  these  quivering  lips  came  forth  the  words, 
Telling  to  the  gay  trees  and  the  bright  air, 
And  all  the  beautiful  and  heedless  scene, 
Of  the  wild  sorrow  that  had  come  and  hushed 
The  love  and  trust  of  her  young,  passionate  soul. 

"  Oh,  shining  leaves,  I  would  ye  fell 

To  .cover  my  dark  grave  ! 
I  would  I  dared  to  pray  to  Heaven 

To  take  the  life  it  gave  ! 
Oh,  river  !  murmuring  river  ! 

Flowing  bright,  and  cold,  and  deep, 
Can  your  low  song  sing  the  anguish 

In  my  aching  heart  to  sleep  ? 
Never  !  never  !  earth  is  mournful ! 

All  things  mock  my  weary  sight ! 
I  turn  away  from  sunny  skies — 

From  hope,  and  love,  and  light ! 
Joy's  radiant  wing  is  folded  ; 

It  will  never  wave  again  ! 
Bright  the  hour  when  I  met  thee, 

Oh,  impassioned  Clarence  Vane! 


180  THE    POET    LOVERS. 


Like  the  fullness  of  that  gladness 

Is  the  wildness  of  this  pain  ! 
I  was  artless  when  you  sought  me ; 

I  was  but  a  dreaming  child  ; 
But  you  woke  my  inner  spirit 

To  devotion  deep  and  wild. 
On  the  altar  in  my  bosom — 

Laid  I  down  my  priceless  trust — 
But  the  holy  shrine  is  broken, 

And  the  gift  lies.in  the  dust ! 
Not  as  others  I  esteemed  thee, 

But  so  gifted  and  so  grand, 
That  upon  thy  placid  forehead 

Did  I  fear  to  lay  my  hand  ; 
And  my  love  and  reverence  blended 

With  a  radiance  purer  far, 
Than  the  light  yet  undescended 

From  the  circle  of  a  star. 
In  one  glorious  river  gliding, 

Ev'ry  word  and  every  thought, 
In  its  bosom  jewels  hiding, 

To  thy  soul's  deep  fountain  brought 
All  the  wealth  of  my  affection, 

All  emotions  pure  and  deep, — 
As  all  waves  in  one  direction 

To  the  ocean  onward  sweep. 
I  blessed  you  when  you  held  my  hands, 

And  looked  into  my  face  ; 
I  blessed  you  when  you  folded  me 

In  a  mute,  hushed  embrace ; 
I  blessed  you  when  your  fervid  lips 

Were  pressed  upon  my  brow ; 
I  loved  you — but  oh  !  agony  ! 

I  dare  not  love  you  now  ! 
Why  did  they  come,  those  dearest  ones, 

And  whisper  in  my  ear 
The  words  of  fearful  meaning, 


THE    POET    LOVERS.  181 


That  I  shuddered  but  to  hear? 
They  told  me  of  such  hateful  things 

In  all  thy  bygone  life  ; — 
They  said  no  woman  pure  and  good 

Should  ever  be  thy  wife ! 
And  o'er  my  girlish  innocence 

Distrustful  shadows  flung, 
And  o'er  love's,  sunny  radiance 

A  cloud  of  sorrow  hung! 
Oh !  bitter,  bitter  knowledge, 

At  my  bosom  entered  in  ! 
I  can  not  love  thee,  Clarence  Vane, 

Thy  soul  is  stained  with  sin ! 
Oh  !  winning  was  your  eloquence, 

And  earnest  was  your  tone, 
When  telling  of  the  rosy  path 

Your  steps  of  life  had  known  ! 
And  when  I  listened  to  your  words 

My  bosom  swelled  with  pride, 
That  /  snould  be  your  chosen  one — 

Your  spirit-love !  your  bride ! 
I  worshiped  the  great  oral  power 

That  chained  the  silent  throng ; 
I  loved  the  golden  lyre  that  thrilled 

With  wild  and  passionate  song. 
And  when,  with  half-averted  eyes, 

You  spoke  of  ladies  fair  ; — 
Of  sweet,  bewildering  loveliness, 

And  grace  and  beauty  rare ; — 
And  how  you  turned  away  from  all 

With  careless  heart  and  cold  ; — 
In  simple,  girlish  innocence, 

I  trusted  all  you  told. 
Oh !  hapless  fate  !  oh  !  cruel  fate  ! 

That  perfect  love  like  mine 
Should  have  been  given  trustingly 

At  an  unhallowed  shrine  ! 
False !  you  will  mock  me  with  that  vrord, 
16 


182  THE    POET    LOVERS. 

Oh  !  wild,  proud  Clarence  Vane  ! 
You'll  taunt  me  with  this  faithlessness, 

Unknowing  of  this  pain  ! 
And  we  must  meet  in  bitterness, 

Who  in  full  faith  did  part ! 
Why  should  I  heed  reproach  or  scorn 

Breathed  by  thy  lips  of  art  ? 
And  yet  I  knew  that  thy  strong  soul 

Gives  purest  love  to  me — 
Can  I  not  tell  a  star  in  heaven 

From  a  star  in  the  sea  ? 
I  feel  that  did  an  angel  sit 

And  smile  upon  my  brow, 
No  holier  your  tenderness 

Could  be  to  me  than  now ; 
But  still  I  cast  that  love  away — 

I  banish  my  sweet  trust — 
I  can  not  soil  my.  soul's  white  wings 

By  stooping  them  to  dust ! 
If  your  great  mind  has  been  for  years 

In  earthly  fetters  bound — 
If  you  have  stooped  your  lofty  flight, 

Base  fires  to  flutter  round — 
What !  though  from  your  soiled  pinions 

You  shake  the  groveling  weight ; — 
What !  though  you  now  soar  to  the  stars, 

/  can  not  be  your  mate ; 
Ay  !  deck  your  glittering  palace 

With  a  lover's  gentle  pride — 
And  dream  of  wild  devotion — 

And  murmur  of  your  bride — 
Oh  !  proud  and  passionate  Clarence ! 

You  will  never  call  me  wife ! 
Earth  is  mournful  as  the  coffin, 

And  pale  sorrow  shrouds  my  life !" 

The  beautiful  young  mourner  hid  her  face 
In  her  small  hands,  and  sank  upon  the  earth. 


THE    POET    LOVERS.  183 

Her  tresses  stole  to  kiss  the  silvery  moss, 
And  her  white  dress  laid  daintily  and  light 
Upon  bright,  crisping  leaves — the  river  sang — 
The  sky  was  soft,  and  fresh,  and  delicate — 
The  breeze  went  by,  and  its  invisible  wings 
Were  laden  with  perfume  and  melody — 
They  were  a  mockery  ! 

Her  lip  was  mute, 

But  there  was  something  fraught  with  agony 
In  the  still  drooping  of  her  slender  form, 
And  the  white  face  lying  in  her  cold  hands. 

The  sun  went  down  and  the  wind  asleep, 
And  the  sky  shut  its  twilight  eyelids  close, 
While  evening  made  her  toilette.     She  came  forth, 
Shining  all  over  with  soft,  radiant  gems, 
And  eloquent  in  peace  and  loveliness ; 
The  dimpling  bosoms  of  the  silver  waves 
Swelled  full  of  melody  in  praise  of  her, 
And  the  dark  shadows  crept  beneath  the  trees 
To  hide  away  from  her  clear,  azure  eyes. 

Those  deep,  still  eyes  were  on  the  stricken  girl 

The  pure,  proud,  beautiful  girl,  whose  first  wild  grief 

Was  knowledge  of  the  evil  in  man's  heart : 

An  agony  awoke  the  bright  young  dreams 

Which  lay  within  her  bosom,  thrilled  with  bliss, 

And  turned  them  into  sorrows,  when  her  soul 

Bent,  shuddering,  to  hear  the  words  of  friends 

Blending  his  name  with  images  of  sin 

She  had  not  known  existed.     Him — oh  !  him  ! 

To  whom  she  gave  such  trust  and  reverence ! 

Such  perfect,  earnest,  spiritual  love ! 

Her  heart  shrank  back  from  the  black  altar-place 

Where  its  sweet  wealth  was  laid — she  could  not  give 

Her  sacred  offerings  where  unholy  fires 

So  long  had  burned  !     Her  very  artlessness 

And  innocence  of  evil  caused  her  grief ! 


184  THE    POET    LOVERS. 


So  bitterly  came  knowledge  to  a  heart 
All  radiant  with  purity  and  love, 
And  thrilling  with  wild  music — like  a  harp 
Just  touched  in  heaven  and  sent,  quivering 
With  its  unutterable  melody,  to  earth. 

The  starry  influence  of  the  shining  night, 
And  the  low  murmur  of  the  passing  waves, 
Soothed,  like  a  blessing,  the  wild,  aching  grief 
Of  the  sweet,  desolate  mourner.     Tenderly 
The  starlight  stole  to  kiss  her  pallid  brow, 
The  trees  reached  down  their  arms  caressingly, 
And  the  bright  river  bade  her  not  to  grief 
In  tones  of  gentleness  untaught  by  art. 
The  beautiful  love  shattered  so  cruelly 
By  earthy  fingers,  here  seemed  proffered  her 
By  the  sweet  angel-spirits  of  the  night. 
Pale,  placid,  and  subdued,  the  young  girl  rose — 
Her  sweet  face  lifted  to  the  sapphire  sky, 
And  her  dark,  mournful  eyes  surpassing  thought 
In  their  deep,  pleading  eloquence,  upraised — 
And  softly  folding  her  white,  slender  hands 
Upon  her  weary  bosom,  prayed  for  peace  ! 

PART  THIRD. 

'  Break  not !  break  not !  break  not,  0  mighty  heart, 

With  this  fierce  anguish  rending  all  thy  strings! 
Back  !  agonizing  fires  which  from  it  start, 

Ere  this  wild  torture  which  my  spirit  wrings, 
Shows  itself  on  my  brow  or  in  my  eye — 

Back  !  back !  into  my  heart !  ye  may  burn  there 
Till  every  feeling  doth  in  ashes  lie, 

But  not  a  trace  of  pain  my  brow  shall  wear ! 

'•'  To  find  her  false !  oh,  anguish  unexpressed  ! 

Be  still,  proud  heart,  be  still !  when  will  this  burst 


THE    POET    LOVERS.  185 


Of  awful  agony  pass  from  my  breast? 

This  suffering  racking  me  must  be  the  worst 
Of  mental  pain  that  man  can  live  and  bear ! 

Another  pang  would  kill  me ;  and  to  die, 
And  let  her  know  the  depth  of  my  despair — 

Better  live  on  in  endless  agony  ! 

'  False  !  false !  0  God  of  heaven  !  is  this  so  ? 

And  has  another  kissed  that  brow  so  bright, 
And  held  those  tiny  hands  of  moulded  snow, 

And  drank  from  those  soft  eyes  their  dewy  light ! 
Peace,  tortured  soul !  why  did  I  dream  of  her 

For  years  and  years  before  I  saw  her  face  ? 
Why  did  my  fiery  soul  its  proud  depths  stir 

To  give  to  her  alone  its  hallowed  place  ? 

'  Burn  on,  fierce  fire,  in  my  consuming  heart, 

Till  every  thought  of  her — till  every  dream 
And  every  hope  in  which  she  had  a  part 

Have  perished  in  thy  fearful,  molten  stream. 
Ashes  !  ashes  !  ashes  alone  are  left ! 

Each  feeling  and  each  passion  have  expired ! 
The  fire  of  this  day's  anguish  has  bereft 

My  heart  of  every  thing  it  once  desired. 

'  Tears  ?  no,  my  tears  are  at  their  fountain  dried — 

It  sends  no  dew  to  cool  my  burning  eyes ; 
The  only  passion  that  remains  is  pride, 

And  that  upon  my  brow  in  mockery  lies. 
Now  I  can  taunt  her  !     I  can  look  unmoved 

Upon  the  loveliness  a  star  might  wear! 
Can  mock  her  with  the  deathless  love  thus  proved, 

While  writhing  sneers  my  lip  and  brow  shall  bear. 

'  And  life,  henceforth,  shall  be  a  hollow  sound — 
The  springs  which  all  its  arrogance  control — 
Its  emptiness — its  nothingness  I've  found  ! 
No  gentle  thrill  shall  ever  move  my  soul ! 


186  THE    POET    LOVERS. 


Bright  dreams  and  lovely  visions,  ye  are  gone! 

My  once  high  heart  lies  burnt  upon  your  shrine ' 
Oh,  mockery  !  that  I  should  deem  that  one 

Of  truth  and  purity  could  e'er  be  mine ! 

;  Ah  !  glorious  aspirations,  where  are  ye  ? 

Oh,  radiant  hopes  and  blest,  where  have  ye  flown? 
Oh,  heart !  most  mighty  heart,  once  proud  and  free  ? 

Oh,  starry  dream  of  love  ?  all  gone  !  all  gone  ! 
A  dumb,  cold,  aching  hollow  is  your  grave — 

No  beautiful  emotion  there  doth  dwell ! 
The  holiest,  highest  love  that  man  e'er  gave 

I  lost  when  I  lost  thee,  oh,  false  Adel ! 

'  But  shall  I  mourn  thee  or  thy  treachery  ? 

Am  I  a  woman  to  bewail  my  fate  ? 
Shall  I  sigh  over  this  great  misery, 

And  of  my  sorrow  piteously  prate  ? 
No  !  every  tone  shall  freeze  like  dropping  ice, 

And  she  shall  shrink  from  my  cold,  steady  eye, 
And  dainty  scorn  my  chosen  words  shall  spice, 

While  mockery  upon  my  lip  doth  lie  !" 

Gorgeous  and  glowing,  from  the  silver  lamp 
Depending  from  the  ceiling,  fell  the  light 
Over  the  luxury  of  that  rich  room, 
Deepening  the  roses  blooming  in  the  tuft 
Of  the  soft,  yielding  carpet — lighting  up 
With  golden  glory  the  emblazoned  names 
Glittering  o'er  the  array  of  rare,  choice  books 
On  the  dark,  polished  shelves — kissing  the  brows 
Of  lovely  statues,  smiling  from  each  niche 
Most  gloriously  like  life — and  lingering 
Over  rich  paintings  and  bright,  perfumed  flowers 
Drooping  in  antique  vases — glowingly 
The  soft  light  flooded  the  magnificent  scene. 
Beneath  the  sparkling  lamp  the  speaker  stood  ; 
The  fatal  missive  of  the  gentle  girl 


THE    POET    LOVERS.  187 


Lay  on  the  floor,  trodden  beneath  his  feet. 
Sculpture  a  hollow  form  of  cold,  still  stone, 
Transparent,  stern,  immovable,  and  pale, 
And  kindle  a  wild,  burning  fire  within — 
So  did  the  mighty  pain  burn  in  his  heart, 
And  glow  through  his  still  features,  as  he  stood 
With  folded  arms  and  high,  proud,  pallid  form. 
His  voice  had  died  away  'mid  shadows  dim 
In  distant  nooks  of  the  luxurious  room, 
And  silently  the  fire  consumed  within  him. 

Then  spirits  came  to  haunt  the  hollow  void 
Where  once  a  great  heart  throbbed — pride  and  despair 
Wrestled  within  his  bosom,  and  his  face 
Grew  fearfully  contorted  with  their  might. 
Now  Pride  looked  out  from  his  deep,  flashing  eye, 
And  sat  a  moment  on  his  haughty  brow  ; 
Anon  Despair  gleamed  wildly  in  his  glance, 
And  shrieked  and  quivered  on  his  ashy  lip. 

Another  spirit,  wilder  than  the  rest, 
Then  rose  within  him — Shadow  of  the  Past — 
And  taunted  him  with  hateful  memories. 
Moaning  in  bitterness,  the  proud  man  sank 
Upon  the  floor  in  crouching  agony, 
And  pleaded  with  those  mocking  shapes  of  sin 
To  leave  him  to  the  fearful  punishment 
Of  his  own  hollow  loneliness — in  vain  ! 
His  brow  lay  on  the  letter  he  had  cast 
In  madness  'neath  his  feet — his  hands  were  pressed 
Convulsively  o'er  his  hot,  tearless  eyes — 
There  was  no  "  angel  presence"  near  him  then ! 
The  words  his  forehead  touched  had  broke  forever 
The  silvery  chain  that  bound  his  wayward  soul 
To  purity,  and  peace,  and  innocence ! 
Wildly  he  pleaded  with  rebuking  shapes 
That  rose-  before  the  vision  of  his  soul ! 
Insensible  things,  glittering  in  that  gay  room, 


188  THE    POET    LOVERS. 


Seemed  shaken  by  his  low,  wild,  aching  tones : 

The  flowers  bent  down,  and  drooped,  and  fainting,  died ; 

A  harp-string  snapped  and  broke,  and  a  lute  sighed; 

Dark  shadows  shivered  in  the  fitful  light, 

And  all  the  crystals  in  the  shining  lamp 

Shut  up  their  sparkling  eyes,  and  looked  no  more 

Upon  his  prostrate  anguish — all  was  dark. 

Still  struggled  through  the  gloom  his  passionate  voice ! 

"  Oh  !  mocking  memories  !  why  haunt  me  now  ? 

Oh !  phantoms  of  the  past,  that  round  me  rise, 
Ye  know  not  how  your  presence  burns  my  brow 

And  taunts  to  agony  my  shrinking  eyes ! 
Leave  me  !  oh,  leave  me  !  ye  reproachful  band, 

Why  do  you  stand  and  gaze  on  my  despair  ? 
Why  do  you  circle  round  me,  hand-in-hand, 

Pale,  saddened  spirits,  once  so  bright  and  fair  ? 

"  I  know  ye  all !  I  know  who  wrought  your  fate — 

This  retribution  is  too  great  to  bear ! 
If  ye  are  pale,  and  sad,  and  desolate — 

Look  on  !  and  shudder  at  my  great  despair ! 
Ye  will  not  pity  me !  such  as  I  gave 

Of  cold,  false,  hollow  pretense,  give  you  me ! 
Away  !  away  !  pale  phantoms  of  the  grave  ! 

Taunt  not  the  wildness  of  my  misery. 

"  Oh,  Ina  !  Ina  !  vision  white  and  fair  ! 

How  pale  and  sweet  thou  dost  before  me  rise ; 
I  hear  the  pleading  that  thy  lip  doth  bear — 

I  see  the  agony  in  those  soft  e}^es ! 
And  now  I  see  thee  mute  and  still  in  death, 

Thy  golden  curls  dark  with  the  dripping  wave, 
Thy  young,  sweet  lip  robbed  of  its  loving  breath, 

Thy  fairy  form  in  a  dishonored  grave ! 

"  And  thou,  proud,  broken-hearted  Isidore ! 

Thy  wild  reproach,  thy  scorn,  and  thy  strange  curse — 


THE    POET    LOVERS.  189 


Away  !  away  !  this  suffering  is  more 

Than  thy  wild  prayer  invoked  for  me,  far  worse 

Than  any  nature  less  than  mine  could  brook, 
Or  even  dream  of  in  its  maddest  power ! 

Away  !  with  that  dark,  scornful,  fearful  look, 
And  leave  me  to  the  anguish  of  this  hour ! 

"  Ye  haunting  spirits  of  the  past,  away ! 

Eyes  once  so  soft  now  burn  my  very  soul ! 
I  can  not  hope — I  can  not  sleep — nor  pray  ! 

Wild  phantoms  have  me  in  their  dark  control. 
Pride  !  pride !  where  have  you  flown,  my  boasted  pride? 

My  brain  is  agony — my  soul  is  hell ! 
In  vain  my  soul  these  visions  has  defied — 

Oh,  this  despair— Adel !  Adel !  Adel !" 


PART     FOURTH. 

By  a  Venetian  window  stood  Adel — 
Her  soft,  deep  eyes  turned  with  a  pensive  look 
Upon  a  sunset,  rarely  beautiful. 
One  round  and  snowy  arm  held  back  the  folds 
Of  a  rich,  crimson  curtain,  whose  warm  glow 
Tinged  with  a  deeper  color  the  young  cheek 
Resting  against  the  casement. 

Purer  still, 

And  holier  than  ever,  was  her  brow — 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  and  more  angel-like, 
And  her  sweet  lip  more  placid  and  less  bright — 
Her  form  more  fragile  even  than  of  yore — 
Her  manner  so  subdued  and  spiritual — 
Herself  the  exquisite  embodiment 
Of  purity,  and  loveliness,  and  grace — 
So  sadly,  softly  beautiful  she  stood. 

The  muffled  echo  of  a  coming  step, 
Wrapped  up  in  roses  from  fie  Persian  loom, 


190 


THE    POET    LOVERS. 


Stole  through  the  fair  apartment ;  but  Adel 

Listed  not  the  soft  echo  'mid  its  flowers. 

Her  thoughts  were  with  her  eyes,  on  the  gay  sky — 

Her  dreams  were  with  the  sunset — purple,  and  gold, 

And  crimson  palaces  she  built  in  air, 

With  her  wild  fancies  for  the  artisans. 

And  when  she  thought  what  spirit  she  would  choose 

To  dwell  with  her  beneath  their  gorgeous  roofs, 

She  sighed,  and  her  lip  quivered  mournfully. 

But  still  she  mused  on  beautiful,  bright  things — 

With  not  a  throb  of  her  impassioned  heart — 

With  not  a  tremble  of  her  delicate  hand — 

Nor  quiver  of  the  lashes  sweetly  raised — 

Nor  startling  of  the  color  in  her  cheek, 

To  tell  her  that  HE  stood  almost  beside  her — 

That  the  dark  eyes  of  Clarence  Yane  were  fixed 

Upon  the  eloquence  of  her  fair  face  ! 

Stilly  he  stood,  and  read  her  musing  mood. 
He  saw  that  all  was  beautiful  and  pure — 
That  her  young  heart  had  turned  away  from  him 
Because  he  was  unworthy — that  her  soul 
Was  blessed  with  holy  peace — the  blessed  peace 
That  was  denied  unto  his  fevered  brain. 
Wild  waves  of  bitterness  swept  o'er  his  soul ; 
Her  quiet  mood  was  madness  to  his  own — 
Her  placid  face  was  torture,  when  his  own 
Had  grown  so  furrowed  in  his  agony ! 
One  burning  will,  to  crush  her  by  the  weight 
Of  scorn  and  pride,  held  his  wild  passions  down — 
Coldly  and  mockingly  his  dark  eye  smiled, 
And  his  lip  curled  maliciously — 

"Adel!" 

The  fair  girl  started  from  her  rosy  dreams, 
And  the  faint  flush  upon  her  cheek  went  down 
At  the  first  sound  of  that  cold,  mockino-  voice. 
Love  !  0  love  !  how  fearful  is  thy  power ! 


THE    POET    LOVERS.  191 


She  had  thought  that  Clarence  was  no  more 

Than  the  wild  wind  to  her — that  every  link 

That  bound  her  soul  to  his  had  broken  been 

By  the  abhorrence  of  his  sinful  past — 

That  the  dark,  struggling  anguish  of  her  soul 

Had  been  subdued  forever — yet  oh  !  now, 

The  very  instant  that  her  eyes  met  his, 

She  FELT  the  spell  upon  her !     A  strange  thrill 

Crept  round  her  sinking  heart — the  weary  past 

Was  all  -forgotten,  and  she  only  felt 

His  presence  !     Why  stood  he  thus  and  smiled  ? 

The  life  seemed  fainting  in  her  heart ;  her  lip 

Spoke  not,  but  with  uneven  step  she  came 

And  leaned  her  forehead  on  his  throbless  breast! 

No  word,  and  no  caress !     And  summoning  strength 

&  CD 

She  lifted  up  her  face  and  looked  in  his. 

Cold  were  his  eyes,  and  stern  his  altered  brow, 

And  his  fine  lips  were  curled  into  a  sneer. 

He  thought  to  crush  with  coldness  and  contempt 

The  gentle  spirit  of  the  gifted  girl  ; 

And  for  a  moment  she  was  powerless 

With  sorrow,  not  with  dread.     She  clung  to  him 

With  icy  and  faint  grasp,  her  large,  strange  eyes 

Fixed  on  his  face,  and  murmured  to  herself, 

Slowly  and  soft,  as  in  a  painful  dream : 

"  He  greets  me  with  no  loving  word — 

His  brow  is  stern  with  pride ; 
The  stars  our  passionate  vows  have  heard, 

Yet  knows  he  not  his  bride  ! 
My  brow  with  anguish  is  distressed — 
My  heart  is  fainting  in  my  breast ; 
Yet  soothes  he  not,  and  speaks  he  not ! 
I  know — I  know  I  am  forgot  !" 

Unconscious  of  her  words  was  the  young  girl, 
In  that  dark  moment  of  bewilderment 
When  love  came  back,  unbidden,  to  her  heart ; 


192  THE    POET    LOVERS. 


It  was  as  well ;  the  evil  in  his  breast 

Had  quenched  the  starry  light  of  love  forever ; 

The  fate  of  one  so  good  and  beautiful 

Must  not  be  blended  with  so  dark  a  fate. 

With  a  chill,  bitter  smile,  he  answered  her : 

"  I  much  regret  this  knowledge  comes  so  late ; 

I  did  not  dream  your  missive  was  a  jest ! 
But  even  in  jest  there  sometimes  lurks  a  fate, 

Preventing  love  like  ours  from  being  blest ; 
And  as  I  deemed  you  earnest,  I  had  thought 

It  was  as  well  to  seek  another  bride. 
The  message  with  such  just  rebukings  fraught 

Was  only  play — you  did  not  mean  to  chide  ? 

"  Most  highly  I  approve  your  faith  and  trust ; 

Nor  caught  nor  held  by  slander's  secret  spring — 
WThat  was  it  about  stooping  to  the  dust — 

Or  'bout  an  eagle  with  a  dirty  wing  ? 
Have  you  repented  of  your  cruelty  ? 

Have  you  forgotten  what  you  so  detest? 
And  do  you  prize  me  more  than  purity  ? 

I  can  not  realize  I  am  so  blest ! 

"  But  think  not,  pretty  puritan,  I  could 

Require  the  sacrifice  that  you  must  make 
Of  friends'  approval  and  of  all  that's  good 

For  a  low  lover's  most  unworthy  sake. 
No  !  no !  the  proffered  bliss  I  must  decline, 

Though  it  should  break  my  heart  to  say  farewell ! 
Yet,  if  for  love  of  me  you  still  should  pine, 

I'll  wed  thee  out  of  pity,  fair  Adel !" 

Back  from  his  bosom  had  the  maiden  sprang 
As  his  first  words  startled  her  'wildered  ear, 
And  stood  up  calm  and  strong,  but  deathly  pale  ; 
And  when  his  sneering  lips  grew  bitterer  still, 
Her  slender  form  grew  stronger  in  its  pride  ; 


THE    POET    LOVERS.  193 


And  the  bright,  haughty  crimson  in  her  cheek 

Burnt  clear  and  beautiful ;  and  her  rich  lip 

Curled  outward  in  resentment,  sweet  and  full. 

And  when  he  ceased,  she  stood  and  gazed  on  him 

In  silent  scorn,  most  deep  and  withering. 

Never  a  star  looked  on  a  petty  flame 

With  clearer  luster  than  her  steady  eye 

Answered  the  mock  disdain  that  quailed  in  his ! 

Never  a  queen  so  wore  her  regal  crown 

As  she  her  conscious  purity  and  pride  ! 

The  tumult  in  his  breast  lay  hushed  and  shamed 

Before  that  peerless  majesty  of  mien — 

The  lip  that  breathed  of  pity  paled  with  awe 

Of  the  bright  being  that  before  him  stood, 

So  lofty  in  her  beauty  and  her  scorn ! 

But  still  pride  struggled  with  a  sense  of  shame, 

And  with  a  husky  voice  he  would  have  spoke 

Still  further  his  unmanly  bitterness ; 

But  with  a  matchless  wave  of  her  white  hand 

And  flashing  eye,  she  uttered,  clear  and  quick — 

"  No  more  !  no  more  !  the  spell  is  broke 

Which  held  me  in  its  dizzy  sway — 
My  dream  of  thee  at  last  has  woke 

To  see  thee  in  revealing  day  ! 
I  can  not  mourn  the  spell  is  past 
Which  held  my  spirit's  powers  fast — 
I  can  not  mourn  the  real  light — 
I  scorn  thee  from  my  waking  sight — 
Away  !  away 

Obedient  to  that  gesture  of  command, 
From  her  proud,  glorious  presence,  with  no  word, 
No  sigh,  and  no  farewell,  young  Clarence  turned. 
The  souls  once  blent  in  seeming  perfectness 
Were  riven  apart  forever — evermore  ! 
Earth— earth  !  thy  mystery — thy  agony  ! 

17 


194  THE    POET    LOVERS. 


In  the  deep  twilight,  as  it  gathered  'round, 
Adel  stood  where  he  left  her,  with  her  hands 
Pressed  tight  upon  her  heart,  and  murmuring 
In  one  same  accent  low,  "  Tis  o'er — 'tis  o'er !" 
And  from  that  hour  she  gathered  up  her  strength, 
And  grew  more  lofty  and  more  beautiful, 
With  all  her  pride  of  genius  and  of  soul. 
She  trusted  not  the  world,  nor  hated  it ; 
But  with  a  peerless  manner,  and  a  brow 
Like  snow  in  coldness  and  in  purity, 
She  walked  amid  its  throngs,  confiding  not, 
But  loved  and  wondered  at  for  starry  gifts — 
A  marble  casket,  exquisitely  fair, 
With  priceless  jewels  glittering  therein  ! 
At  times  she  swept  her  lyre  with  hand  divine, 
And  eagerly  the  world  listed  the  strains 
Thrilling  its  heart  with  their  rare  eloquence — 
So  sweet,  and  soft,  and  passionate,  and  full ; 
And  through  the  fineness  of  each  delicate  note 
A  finer  tone  lingered  on  the  'tranced  ear — 
A  music  mournfully  and  softly  strange, 
Like  a  faint  dirge  played  upon  higher  keys, 
Or  tear-drops  falling  on  the  spirit's  wires. 

Have  you  ne'er  seen  a  palace  grand  and  high, 
And  decked  within  by  many  costly  things  ? 
Pictures  of  beauty  and  bright  burning  lamps, 
And  books  of  wisdom,  and  sweet,  pleasant  flowers, 
And  many  tall,  fair  mirrors,  giving  back 
A  thousand  times  the  splendor  that  they  saw  ? 
Like  such  a  palace  was  proud  Clarence  Vane 
Before  he  met  his  beautiful  Adel. 
But  the  fair  habitants  who  should  have  been 
Within  so  bright  a  dwelling,  had  gone  out, 
And  lowly  slaves  were  rioting  within. 
Virtue  and  Peace,  and  Truth  and  Eloquence 
Were  frighted  from  its  chambers — even  Pride 

O 

And  stern  Ambition  fled  the  revelry 


THE    POET    LOVERS. 


Of  the  dark  slaves  they  could  not  fraternize. 

Passion,  and  Selfishness,  and  all  their  brood 

Of  tyrant  evils  feasted  in  that  home, 

And  tore  the  bocks  of  wisdom,  and  defaced 

The  lovely  pictures  Fancy  had  designed, 

And  crushed  the  flowers  of  Purity,  and  quenched 

The  burning  lamps  of  Genius  where  they  hung ! 

But  a  sweet  angel-visitant  then  came, 

And  with  the  aweing  power  of  purity 

Walked  through  the  palace,  and  the  evils  fled. 

With  graceful  hand  the  pictures  she  retouched, 

Re-lighted  the  dark  lamps,  re-wrote  the  books, 

And  breathed  new  perfume  in  the  withered  flowers 

And  wheresoe'er  she  walked,  the  mirrors  gave 

Only  her  own  fair  image  pure  and  bright; 

And  this  sweet  angel  was  Spiritual  Love  ! 

When  she  departed,  desolate  Despair 
Touched  his  wild  torch  to  all  the  lovely  scene; 
And  while  the  flames  rose  over  all  within, 
Stood  'mid  the  fearful  ruin,  Samson-like, 
The  maddened  instrument  of  his  own  death. 
Yet  who  that  stood  and  on  that  palace  gazed, 
With  its  proud,  marble  front  so  calm  and  cold, 

Would  even  dream  that  all  was  dark  within 

All  hollow,  dreary,  charred,  and  tenantless— 
Save  by  the  ghosts  of  past  magnificence ! 
But  thus  it  was  with  Clarence,  since  the  hour, 
When  doubly  desolate,  rebuked,  and  still, 
He  went  forth  from  the  presence  of  his  love. 
His  mighty  heart  became  the  sepulcher 
Holding  the  ashes  of  its  own  dead  friends, 
And  haunted  by  pale  shadows  of  the  past ; 
While  mind,  like  a  dumb  slave,  sat  at  the  door, 
That  none  might  know  the  desolation  there ! 

If  the  young  flowers  of  Adel's  high  heart 
Were  laid  upon  a  shrine  that  withered  them, 


196  LELLA. 


Should  no  more  bloom  be  gathered  ?     While  her  hand 

With  mournful  sweetness  swept  her  silver  lyre, 

Attracted  by  its  angel  melody, 

A  spirit  came  and  bended  at  her  feet, 

With  earnest  love  and  gentle  reverence — 

A  spirit  worthy  to  commune  with  hers — 

Gifted  and  eloquent,  and  full  of  truth  ! 

And  grateful  for  the  homage  offered  her, 

While  all  her  soul  quivered  with  intense  joy, 

She  yielded  up  the  jewels  of  the  love 

That  would  not  blend  with  darkness — and  received, 

With  blessings  and  with  prayers  and  earnest  trust, 

A  love  and  tenderness  as  deep  and  pure 

As  the  rich  light  that  broods  around  a  star. 


LELLA. 

SOFTLY  sleeping,  softly  sleeping, 
Where  the  graceful  vines  are  creeping 
With  their  tendrils  intertwining — 
Where  the  dew  all  day  is  shining — 
Where  a  limpid  stream  is  wending, 
And  one  aged  tree  is  bending, 
And  the  gentle  flowers  are  weeping, 
Softly  sleeping,  softly  sleeping, 

Leila  lies. 

Pale  stars  glisten,  pale  stars  glisten, 
Blossoms  bend  their  heads  to  listen — 
In  the  old  tree  winds  are  toning 
Rustling  music,  sad  and  moaning — 
Moonbeams  through  the  shades  are  beaming 
Where  a  cold  white  stone  is  gleaming — 


LELLA.  19T 


Tell  us  why  where  vines  are  creeping, 
Softly  sleeping,  softly  sleeping, 

Leila  lies  ? 

Oft  in  childhood,  oft  in  childhood, 
Tired  of  rambling  through  the  wild  wood, 
In  these  very  sweet  recesses 
Leila  used  to  braid  her  tresses. 
When  each  curl  and  flower  is  linking, 
Into  slumber  watch  her  sinking — 
Tiny  feet  from  white  robe  peeping, 
Softly  sleeping,  softly  sleeping, 

Leila  lies. 

Now  a  maiden,  now  a  maiden, 
Still  her  curls  with  flowers  are  laden, 
Still  she  sits  where  buds  are  springing, 
With  the  wild  birds  gayly  singing ; 
Love-light  on  her  brow  is  beaming — 
Watch  her  in  her  woman-dreaming — 
Clouds  and  sunshine,  smiles  and  weeping — 
Softly  sleeping,  softly  sleeping, 

Leila  lies. 

Like  a  flower,  like  a  flower 
Fading  in  its  woodland  bower, 
Leila's  form  grew  light  and  lighter, 
And  her  young  cheek  white  and  whiter. 
Now  no  more  where  birds  are  singing, 
Her  sweet,  merry  laugh  is  ringing, 
Nor  where  fair  things  watch  are  keeping, 
Softly  sleeping,  softly  sleeping, 

Leila  lies. 

Waking  never,  waking  never, 
Leila  sleepeth  now  forever. 
Pale,  and  cold,  and  still  she  lieth— 
Streamlet  calls  and  bird  replieth — 


198 


ANGELS. 


1 


Still  to-morrow  and  to-morrow 
Drooping  willows  weep  in  sorrow — 
Yet  where  glancing  waves  are  leaping 
Softly  sleeping,  softly  sleeping, 

Leila  lies. 


ANGELS. 

I  DREAMED  that  I  was  floating  in  a  tiny  boat  and  fair — 
Floating — floating — softly  floating  through  the  blue  and  dreamy  air ! 
And  my  boat  was  but  a  shining  cloud  of  pure  and  pearly  white, 
With  its  sails  and  graceful  curvings  tinted  with  a  golden  light, 
And  the  gentle  breath  of  heaven  moved  it  murmuringly  along, 
With  a  ripple  and  a  motion  soft  as  swelling  of  a  song. 
Sweetly,  sweetly  rose  the  music  from  the  undulating  air  ; 
Softly  to  its  rise  and  falling  moved  the  snowy  boat  and  rare  ; 
While,  within  its  bosom  resting  did  I  dreaming  float  along, 
Till  my  heart  kept  time  in  beating  to  the  motion  and  the  song. 
Ah,  how  dizzily  delicious !  my  wild  pulse  would  not  be  still ! 
Floating — floating — every  motion  through  my  being  sent  a  thrill! 
Loosened  were  my  flowing  tresses,  and  they  streamed  upon  the  air 
Till  they  seemed  to  catch  the  glory  that  was  glowing  everywhere ; 
And  my  form  was  draped  in  tissue,  half  the  lily,  half  the  rose — 
Just  the  color  that  the  sunset  through  a  pearly  vapor  throws ! 
And  a  wreath  like  shining  starlight  was  around  my  forehead  flung, 
And  my  lips  were  softly  singing  what  the  azure  ripples  sung. 
How  I  wondered  why  I  floated  through  the  ether's  dizzy  height — 
Why  my  garments  and  my  tresses  grew  so  beautifully  bright ! 
And  the  more  and  more  I  wondered  all  the  music  had  a  sound 
As  if  "angel— angel— angel!"  was  murmuring  all  around. 
Half  delighted  and  half  trembling,  full  of  sweet,  uncertain  dread, 
I  unconsciously  repeated  what  the  whisper  round  me  said. 
Angel  ?  murmured  I,  inquiring,  when  I  saw,  with  sudden  start, 


ANGELS.  199 


That  which  sent  the  glad  blood  leaping  in  a  torrent  to  my  heart : 
Softly  on  my  shoulders  folded  lay  a  pair  of  glittering  wings, 
Pure  and  beautiful,  and  glancing  like  to  living,  breathing  things  ! 
Oh  !  I  longed  yet  feared  to  wave  them,  for  it  seemed  as  if  they  slept, 
Though  my  shining  tresses  kissed  them  and  upon  their  brightness 

crept. 
Onward,  onward  moved  my  bright  boat  through  the  dreamy  azure 

air — 

Then  I  saw  around  me,  rippling  through  the  ether  everywhere, 
Many  and  many  a  pearly  vessel  with  its  gleam  of  golden  light ; 
And  in  each  one,  softly  singing,  sat  an  angel  pure  and  bright. 
Their  wings  like  mine  were  folded,  and  their  wreaths  had  such  a 

glow, 

But  their  starry  eyes  moved  never  from  the  living  world  below. 
Then  I  knew  that  they  were  angels — guardian  angels  of  the  earth — 
That  each  angel  watched  a  spirit  from  the  moment  of  its  birth  ! 
That  they  hovered  o'er  them  ever,  in  the  day  and  in  the  night, 
Looking  ever  at  their  spirits  with  their  eyes  of  living  light. 
Each  one  had  the  pleasant  power  to  bestow  some  gift  of  grace 
On  the  soul  which  it  was  guarding  in  its  earthly  dwelling-place. 
And  no  heart,  however  sinning,  beat  within  a  human  breast, 
But  that  angel-gift  still  lingered  like  a  holy  thing  and  blest ! 
Then  methought  I  saw  the  spirit  that  thenceforth  was  in  my  care — 
'Twas  a  bright  and  blessed  infant,  pure,  and  beautiful,  and  fair, 
Sleeping  on  its  mother's  bosom,  with  its  eyes  of  dewy  blue 
From  their  half-unclosing  fringes  like  deep  starlight  shining  through ; 
With  its  cheeks  as  soft  as  velvet,  and  its  ringlets  of  brown  hair 
Lying  on  its  blue-veined  temples  and  its  forehead  baby-fair. 
Oh !  the  darling  was  so  beautiful !  the  mother's  gaze  of  pride 
Grew  dim  with  dewy  lovingness — the  tears  she  could  not  hide 
Stole  to  her  drooping  lashes,  and  she  murmured  a  low  prayer 
That  her  babe  might  be  forever  thus — sinless,  pure,  and  fair. 
Then  I  laid  my  angel-gift  on  the  heart  of  the  little  child, 
And  she  opened  her  eyes  so  sweetly  in  her  mother's  face  and  smiled. 
It  was  not  pride  or  beauty,  or  a,  princess'  diadem, 
But  the  pearl  of  changeless  modesty — a  purer,  holier  gem. 
Then  an  angel  glided  by  me  whose  gaze  so  still  and  deep 
Was  in  a  silent  chamber  where  a  young  girl  lay  asleep. 


200  FRAGMENT. 


That  chamber  was  familiar,  and  I  could  not  turn  away — 

'Twas  my  own  deserted  being  that  upon  the  couch  yet  lay. 

I  watched  with  breathless  eagerness — from  'neath  her  starry  wing, 

The  angel  took  a  warbler,  a  bright  and  radiant  thing, 

And  with  a  tearful  blessing  she  sent  it  down  to  rest 

On  the  spirit-chords  forever  within  the  sleeper's  breast. 

Then  darkness  came  upon  me,  the  brightness  left  no  trace, 

Down,  down  I  felt  me  sinking  through  dark  and  dizzy  space, 

Till  I  lay  within  my  chamber,  and  the  moonlight's  silver  gleam 

Startled  me  from  my  slumber,  and  I  knew  it  was  a  dream  ! 

And  now  since  that  sweet  vision,  forever  at  the  sight 

Of  any  thing  that's  beautiful,  or  eloquent,  or  bright — 

At  every  tone  of  music,  at  good  and  gentle  things, 

I  feel  a  flutter  in  my  heart  like  the  fluttering  of  wings — 

And  I  hear  a  low,  wild  warble,  so  strangely  soft  and  sweet, 

That  with  feelings  inexpressible  my  pulse  doth  faster  beat ; 

And  I  would  not  give  the  music  that  it  sings  unto  my  soul 

For  the  diamonds  of  Golconda  or  a  crowned  queen's  control 


FRAGMENT. 

FROM  out  the  restless  waters  of  the  sea 
The  pale  moon  rises  with  her  placid  face — 
So  from  the  restless  beating  of  my  heart 
A  vision,  fairer  than  the  moon,  steals  up. 
There  were  wild  storms  upon  the  sea  last  night ! 
Its  waters  had  a  sound  of  woe  and  madness — 
So  were  there  storms  of  passion  in  my  heart 
That  had  a  sound  of  muttering  and  moans ! 
The  sea  is  full  of  light  and  song  this  eve  ; 
Its  waves  breathe  music  as  they  kiss  the  shore — 
And  so  my  heart  is  melted  in  its  mood, 
And  murmurs  e'er  with  tenderness  and  peace ! 


INA. 

/  think  my  heart  is  like  the  sea,  my  love, 
Forever  and  forever  like  the  sea  ! 
Like  it  in  terror,  and  in  power  and  depth — 
Like  it  in  melody,  and  calm  and  light. 
Now  I  will  sing  to  thee  as  the  waves  sing ; 
And  in  the  articulate  music  of  the  words, 
That  seek  thy  ear  as  ripples  seek  the  shore, 
Shall  be  defined  the  vision  of  my  soul, 
That  rises  from  its  restless,  beating  depths, 
As  the  moon  rises  from  the  dimpling  waves. 


201 


INA. 

DIMPLES  play  at  hide-and-seek 
Upon  Ina's  crimson  cheek — 
Like  the  bud  which  wild -bees  sip 
Is  her  red  and  restless  lip. 
Soft  brown  tresses  steal  away 
On  her  slender  neck  to  play — 
Lily  white  is  each  round  arm — 
Fairy  is  her  girlish  form. 

Why  is  Ina  blushing  now  ? 
Why  so  sobered  her  fair  brow  ? 
Why  is  her  blue  eyes  thus  hid 
So  demurely  by  the  lid  ? 
Why  those  orange  flowers  bright, 
And  that  robe  of  spotless  white  ? 
We  shall  lose  our  village  pride — 
Ina  is  to  be  a  bride  ! 

Why  is  Ina  silent  now  ? 

Why  so  pallid  her  white  brow  ? 


202  THE    SILENT 


Why  does  the  fringed  lid  thus  lie 
Moveless  o'er  her  radiant  eye  ? 
Why  so  colorless  her  cheek? 
Tell  us  why  she  does  not  speak — 
Why  comes  not  her  gentle  breath  ? 
Ina  is  the  bride  of  death  ! 

Withered  is  the  orange  wreath — 
Cold  the  forehead  underneath  ! 
Come,  false  bridegroom,  who  hath  fled- 
Come,  and  look  upon  the  dead  ! 
All  your  terrors  naught  avail — 
Heart  is  still  and  bosom  pale ! 
Wail  and  moan !  you  can  not  save — 
Ina  slumbers  in  the  grave  ! 


THE  SILENT  SHIP. 

WE  were  sitting  in  the  starlight,  by  the  gliding  river's  side — 
He,  a  spirit  pure  and  earnest — I,  his  sacred  spirit-bride — 
Sitting  in  the  holy  starlight  falling  from  the  jeweled  sky 
O'er  the  water  just  beneath  us,  flowing  bright  and  silent  by. 
There  was  something  dim  and  dreamy,  and  so  solemn  in  the  air, 
And  the  earth  was  lying  sweetly  in  her  slumber  still  and  fair ; 
And  her  breath  had  grown  so  quiet  that  a  fold  it  did  not  stir 
Of  the  green  luxurious  curtain  drooping  graceful  over  her. 
Silent  dew  and  silent  starlight,  silent  earth  and  silent  sky — 
All  was  hushed  save  one  faint  murmur  of  the  river  flowing  by — 
And  one  low,  dear  tone  of  music,  whispering  in  my  thrilling  ear, 
Words  so   dreamlike  in  their  beauty,  that  my  soul   could  only 

hear ; 

Words  so  eloquent  and  gentle,  that  1  never  may  forget — 
They  are  ringing  in  sweet  melody  within  my  spirit  yet ! 


THE    SILENT    SHIP.  203 


111  the  dim,  delicious  silence,  even  the  water  fell  asleep, 

Looking  bright,  and  pure,  and  placid,  and  immeasurably  deep  ; 

And  subdued  by  this  strange  beauty,  the  communer  by  my  side 

Hushed  his  spiritual  revealings,  and  sat  voiceless  by  his  bride. 

How  beautiful  the  stillness !  this  intense  yet  softened  rest ! 

A  perfect  sense  of  happiness  thrilled  deep  within  each  breast! 

When  as  we  watched  the  tremble  of  the  starlight  on  the  stream 

From  out  the  shadow  of  a  curve  all  noiseless  as  a  dream, 

All  slowly,  softly,  silently,  all  spirit-like  and  clear, 

Gliding  through  the  gently  parting  waves  a  vessel  did  appear. 

We  hushed  our  breath — we  hushed  our  hearts — no  echo  of  a  sound 

Came  in  through  the  dim  loveliness,  the  solemn  air  around  ! 

We  gazed  upon  the  silent  ship — no  sign  of  life  was  there, 

Yet  on  it  glided  gracefully,  all  tall,  and  straight,  and  fair ! 

We  saw  tire  ripples  break  away  and  lose  themselves  in  light, 

As  gently  but  unwaveringly  it  stole  upon  our  sight ; 

We  saw  each  slender  spar  and  mast  defined  against  the  sky, 

As  slowly,  softly,  silently,  it  phantom-like  went  by. 

A  feeling  of  sublimity,  which  could  not  be  expressed, 

Sank  heavy  through  the  breathless  hush  upon    each  throbless 

breast — 

A  sense  of  something  beautiful,  yet  almost  to  be  feared, 
As  slowly,  softly,  silently,  the  strange  ship  disappeared. 
"Sybil"  was  breathed  upon  my  ear  in  one  low  thrilling  tone, 
And  I  felt  the  clasping  of  a  hand  grow  tighter  on  my  own. 
It  was  enough — within  our  souls  each  felt  that  ship  to  be 
An  emblem  of  our  spirit-love — our  mingled  destiny  ! 
It  seemed  so  like  a  hallowed  spell,  so  like  a  lovely  dream, 
With  lingering  steps  we  turned  away  from  the  star-lighted  stream  ; 
Its  beauty  was  so  strange,  and  wild,  and  inexpressible, 
That  after  many  days  had  passed  we  found  no  words  to  tell 
Our  thoughts  of  dreamy  loveliness  and  certainty  it  gave, 
That  thus  our  still,  deep,  spirit-love  should  glide  upon  life's  wave. 
Clouds  now  are  o'er  our  silent  ship,  and  not  one  starry  gleam 
Fulls  softly  through  the  shadows  that  dim  life's  troubled  stream ; 
There  are   storms,  and  clouds,  and  darkness,  but  I   tremble  not 

with  fear, 
For  our  ship  will  glide  unshaken  on  till  the  stars  again  appear. 


204  THERE  IS  A  DREAM  I  CHERISH. 


Such  thoughts  as  these  that  silent  ship  within  our  souls  awoke, 
Are  prophecies  too  sure  and  deep  to  be  by  darkness  broke ; 
And  whether  there  be  storms  or  not,  our  spirits  linked  must  be, 
Till  our  bark  is  moored  in  safety  in  the  far  Eternity. 


THERE  IS  A  DREAM  I  CHERISH. 

YOUTHFUL  hearts  will  seek  romances — 
Youthful  hearts  will  have  their  fancies ; 
And  there  is  a  dream  I  cherish 

That  is  with  me  all  the  day, 
Of  a  grand  old  tree  that  springeth 
Where  its  waving  foliage  flingeth 
A  soft  shadow  on  the  casement, 

Where  I  muse  the  hours  away — 
A  soft  shadow,  weary  never 

Of  its  light  and  shifting  play. 

This  I  dream — an  angel  spirit 
Is  forever  hovering  near  it, 
And  within  it  and  above  it, 

With  a  mission  from  the  sky  ! 
For  the  old  tree  seems  to  love  me, 
As  it  waves  its  boughs  above  me 
With  a  faint  and  gentle  murmur, 

Or  a  low  and  saddened  sigh ; 
For  it  seems  to  guard  and  cherish 

Even  the  wayward  dreamer — I ! 

There's  a  whisper  and  a  blessing 

In  the  beautiful  caressing 

Of  the  leaves  that  stoop  to  kiss  me 


THERE  IS  A  DREAM  I  CHERISH.  205 


As  I  lean  upon  the  sill ; 
And  their  murmur  makes  a  feeling 
That  on  earth  hath  no  revealing, 
But  that  sleepeth  in  my  bosom 

Mute  and  eloquent  and  still, 
And  their  touch  upon  my  forehead 

Wakes  a  strangely  pleasant  thrill. 

Where  the  topmost  boughs  are  swinging, 
And  the  waving  leaves  are  singing 
One  low  song  of  love  forever 

To  the  azure  up  on  high, 
Does  my  soul  delight  to  hover, 
With  the  cool  leaves  for  a  cover, 
Resting  in  a  swaying  cradle, 

Looking  up  into  the  sky  ! 
With  a  motion  soft  as  music 

Swaying  in  the  tree-top  high  ! 

O  how  blest  is  my  wild  spirit, 
When  no  earthly  thought  is  near  it, 
As  it  lies  'mid  dreams  and  visions 

In  the  arms  of  the  old  tree ! 
All  the  whispering  leaflets  bless  it, 
And  the  wild  wind  doth  caress  it, 
And  the  soft  and  dreamy  azure 

Can  my  spirit  only  see ; 
And  that  seems  to  grow  and  deepen 

Into  strange  infinity. 

But  there  is  a  solemn  hour 

When  the  tree  hath  wilder  power — 

In  the  deep  and  starry  midnight, 

When  I  sit  and  watch  the  sky — 
When  the  foliage  moans  and  shivers, 
And  the  starlight  o'er  it  quivers, 
And  the  shadows  creep  and  tremble 

O'er  the  casement  where  they  lie — 
18 


206  THERE    IS    A    DREAM    I    CHERISH. 


Then  the  shadow  and  the  whisper 
Thrill  my  soul  with  mystery  ! 

When  the  summer  day  is  breaking, 
And  the  earth  is  slowly  waking — 
When  I  throw  the  shutter  open 

To  the  morning  fresh  and  fair, 
And  the  spray  doth  bend  before  me, 
Dashing  shining  dew-drops  o'er  me, 
While  the  little  leaves  a -laughing, 

Clap  their  bright  hands  in  the  air, 
As  the  perfumed  shower  of  jewels 

Sparkles  in  my  unbound  hair. 

Oh  !  I  know  no  monarch  olden 
Wore  a  crown  so  brightly  golden 
Nor  a  robe  so  richly  crimson 

As  the  tree  that  loves  me  wore, 
When  the  air  was  bright  and  dreaming, 
And  the  heavens  were  blue  and  gleaming 
In  the  glorious  days  of  autumn, 

That,  alas,  are  now  no  more ! 
Then  its  murmur  grew  so  mournful 

As  the  sunny  hours  passed  o'er. 

Therefore,  as  my  wayward  spirit 
Is  forever  blessed  when  near  it, 
As  it  seems  to  know  and  love  me, 

And  is  so  beloved  by  me — 
As  its  every  whisper  thrills  me 
And  its  midnight  shadow  fills  me 

With  a  thought  of  mystery — 
Do  I  think  some  angel  mission 

Hovers  ever  in  that  tree  ! 


LINES    TO    A    POETESS.  207 


LINES  TO  A  POETESS. 

OH  !  poetess — young  poetess  ! 

0  lady  fair  and  rare  ! 
There  is  sweet  starlight  in  thine  eyes, 

Bright  sunlight  in  thy  hair; 
There  is  soft  music  on  thy  lip, 

And  radiance  on  thy  brow ; 
Earth  knoweth  not  a  form  of  light 

More  exquisite  than  thou. 

I  love  to  see  the  shadows  start 

And  deepen  in  thine  eyes ; 
I  love  to  watch  their  'wildering  wealth 

Of  lashes  slowly  rise  ; 
And  mark  the  wild  throb  of  thy  heart 

Go  flushing  to  thy  cheek — 
Thy  restless  lips'  strange  eloquence 

That  scarcely  needs  to  speak  ! 

And  oh  !  the  glorious  purity 

And  pride  of  thy  young  face ! 
The  murmur  of  the  passionate  words, 

The  witchery  of  thy  grace  ! 
Most  beautiful !  most  beautiful ! 

How  dare  I  love  thee  so, 
Where  love  to  such  a  heart  as  mine,    . 

Is  surely  only  woe  ? 

For  love  of  mine  for  sympathy 

Too  passionate  is,  and  deep ; 
My  lyre-strings  when  I  touch  them  break, 

And  when  I  sing  I  weep ; 

mingle  tears  with  starry  thoughts, 

And  sighs  with  wild  sweet  dreams, 
And  all  my  hopes  go  stilly  by, 

Like  blossoms  down  dark  streams. 


208  LINES    TO    A    POETESS, 


And  thou — oh,  thou !  I  sometimes  feai 

Wilt  learn  that  song  of  Fate, 
That  links  with  every  happy  note 

One  sad  and  desolate  ; 
For  through  the  starlight  of  thine  eyes 

I  see  the  world  it  hides — 
That  by  the  fountains  of  its  song 

A  wild,  wild  spirit  bides. 

From  where  thou  shinest  in  thy  pride, 

I  sadly  sit  apart, 
And  gather  up  thy  smiles  to  glad 

My  twilight  gloom  of  heart. 
I  can  not  take  from  thee  my  eyes, 

These  sad  prophetic  eyes, 
O'er  which  I  often  wish  the  lids 

Might  never,  never  rise. 

I  see  thy  glorious  lip  of  red, 

Thy  lip  of  love  and  pride, 
And  in  its  quiver  read  the  thought 

Thy  words  perchance  would  hide; 
I  mark  the  eloquence  of  thy  brow, 

The  changing  of  thy  face ; 
In  the  soft  wreathing  of  thine  arms 

I  read  thy  spirit's  grace. 

0  rare,  pure,  radiant  poetess ! 

Thy  spell  of  life  is  love ! 
May  he  who  winds  it  with  his  own 

Be  watched  by  eyes  above. 
My  thought  of  thee,  oh  !  sweet  young  girl, 

With  such  deep  care  is  fraught, 
That  words  would  surely  turn  to  tears 

In  mockery  of  that  thought. 


MIDNIGHT.  209 


MIDNIGHT. 

ONE  by  one,  in  slow  succession, 
The  twelve  hours  have  floated  by, 

Circling,  in  a  still  procession, 

Round  a  glittering  throne  on  high : 

Handmaids  to  the  solemn  midnight 

As  she  walketh  up  the  sky. 

With  a  motion  slow  and  peerless, 
Up  she  glideth  through  the  air, 

Mutely  perfect,  smileless,  tearless, 
Hushed,  and  wonderfully  fair — 

Pausing,  in  her  quiet  splendor, 

Where  her  twelve  attendants  are. 

All  the  stars  their  brows  uncover, 

All  the  breezes  die  away, 
All  the  hours  which  round  her  hover 

Stand  in  dim  and  mute  array ; 
For  the  midnight,  pure  and  placid, 
Kneeleth  on  her  throne  to  pray. 

Grand  beyond  the  power  of  telling 
Is  the  midnight  in  her  prayer — 

All  sublimity  has  dwelling 
On  her  brow  serenely  fair  ; — 

Brighter  than  the  crown  of  jewels 

Bound  upon  her  raven  hair. 

She  is  asking  for  a  blessing 

On  the  earth  that  dreams  below, 

And  the  leaves,  their  boughs  caressing, 
Cease  their  waving  to  and  fro — 

And  the  murmuring,  trilling  streamlet 

Seems  to  sing  more  soft  and  slow. 


210  MIDNIGHT. 


Her  pure  eyes  are  upward  beaming, 
And  her  pale  hands  folded  lie — 

Oh  !  how  beautiful  this  seeming 
Of  the  queen  of  all  the  sky, 

Meekly  asking,  'mid  her  glory, 

From  the  greater  power  on  high. 

In  her  dim  and  holy  presence 

The  still  world  has  grown  more  still, 

And  soft  silence'  subtile  essence 
Seems  the  breathless  air  to  fill, 

Till  the  hushed  heart  of  creation 

Scarcely  dares  with  awe  to  thrill. 

In  serene,  subduing  splendor, 

When  her  time  of  prayer  has  flown, 

Through  the  circle  that  attend  her, 
She  descendeth  from  her  throne — 

Gliding  westward  from  the  zenith, 

As  they  follow,  one  by  one. 

All  the  stars  their  faces  cover, 
All  the  flowers  droop  with  tears, 

And  the  breezes  round  them  hover 
With  a  whispered  tale  of  fears, 

As  the  Midnight  Queen  retire th, 

And  the  King  of  Day  appears. 

Were  I  but  a  star  in  heaven, 

Or  a  little  flower,  alone, 
I  would  worship,  every  even, 

The  sweet  midnight  on  her  throne ; 
But  a  worship  yet  more  perfect 
Hath  the  living  spirit  known. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    MY    SONG. 


211 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  MY  SONG. 

TELL  me — have  you  ever  met  her — 

Met  the  spirit  of  my  song — 
Have  her  wave-like  footsteps  glided 

Through  the  city's  worldly  throng? 
You  will  know  her  by  a  wreath, 

Woven  all  of  starry  light, 
That  is  lying  'mid  her  hair — 

Braided  hair  as  dark  as  night. 

A  short  band  of  radiant  summers 

Is  upon  her  forehead  laid, 
Twining  half  in  golden  sunlight, 

Keeping  half  in  dreamy  shade; 
Five  white  fingers  clasp  a  lyre, 

Five  its  silvery  strings  awake, 
And  bewildering  to  the  soul 

Is  the  music  that  they  make. 

Though  her  glances  sleep  like  shadows 

'Neath  each  falling,  silken  lash, 
Yet  at  aught  that  wakes  resentment, 

They  magnificently  flash. 
Though  you  loved  such  dewy  dream-light, 

And  such  glances  of  sweet  surprise, 
You  could  never  bear  the  scorn 

Of  these  proud  and  brilliant  eyes. 

There's  a  sweet  and  winning  curving 

In  her  bright  lip's  crimson  hue, 
And  a  glittering  tint  of  roses 

From  her  soft  cheek  gleaming  through ; 
Do  you  think  that  you  have  met  her  ? 

She  is  young  and  pure  and  fair, 
And  she  wears  a  wreath  of  starlight 

In  her  braided  ebon  hair. 


212 


THE    DREAMER. 


Often  at  her  feet  I'm  sitting, 

With  my  head  upon  her  knee, 
While  she  tells  me  dreams  of  beauty 

In  low  words  of  melody ; 
And  when  my  unskillful  fingers 

Strive  her  silvery  lyre  to  wake, 
She  will  smooth  my  tresses,  smiling 

At  the  discord  which  I  make. 

But  of  late  days  I  have  missed  her — 

The  bright  being  of  my  love — 
And  perchance  she's  stolen  pinions, 

And  has  floated  up  above. 
Tell  me — have  you  ever  met  her — 

Met  the  spirit  of  my  song — 
Have  her  wave-like  footsteps  glided 

Through  the  city's  worldly  throng  ? 


THE  DREAMER. 

; 

A  DREAMER  rose  from  her  quiet  sleep 
To  look  out  upon  the  night, 

And  the  light  that  fell  from  the  shining  sky 
Ne'er  fell  on  a  maid  more  bright : 

For  the  youthful  form  in  those  robes  of  snow- 
Was  full  of  a  breathing  grace, 

And  fashioned  in  perfect  loveliness 
Was  the  beauty  of  her  face. 

In  the  rosy  palm  of  her  dimpled  hand 
One  red  cheek  nestling  lay, 

And  smiles  stole  out  from  her  coral  lips 
With  that  lily  hand  to  play  ; 


THE    DREAMER. 


213 


The  thick,  dark  lashes  were  lifted  up 

To  a  brow  as  pure  as  snow, 
And  dark,  and  soft,  and  beautiful 

Were  the  eyes  that  shone  below ; 
They  were  dark,  and  soft,  and  beautiful, 

And  full  of  a  dewy  light, 
And  stars  like  those  in  the  skies  were  there, 

But  a  hundred  times  more  bright. 

The  young  moon  seemed  like  a  boat  of  pearl, 

With  a  soft  light  shining  through, 
To  pilot  the  stars  on  their  way  through  heaven, 

O'er  a  sea  of  pathless  blue  ; 
And  the  air  was  full  of  melody — 

For  the  rustle  of  leafy  trees, 
And  the  dreamy  murmur  of  dimpled  waves 

Stole  away  on  the  winged  breeze ; 
And  the  earth  slept  sweet  in  her  night  attire, 

Bejeweled  with  perfumed  dew, 
And  'broidered  o'er  with  flowers  and  leaves, 

And  buds  of  many  a  hue. 

The  dreamer  gazed  on  this  loveliness 

Till  her  cheek  was  one  crimson  glow, 
And  the  life  in  her  heart  throbbed  hurriedly, 

And  her  breath  came  quick  and  low  ; 
And  those  eyes,  so  dreamy,  and  soft,  and  sweet, 

And  so  full  of  dewy  light, 
Forgot  their  calm,  clear,  spirit-look, 

And  grew  dark,  wild,  and  bright ; 
A  beauty  too  dazzling  for  that  of  earth 

Stole  over  her  upturned  face, 
And  it  seemed  that  the  living  soul  breathed  out 

From  the  lines  in  that  form  of  grace ; 
Her  lips  were  parted  and  tremulous, 

And  when  at  length  she  spoke, 
Like  the  music  of  tinkling  water-drops, 

The  words  from  her  red  lips  broke ; 


214  THE    DREAMER. 


For  her  tones  were  fashioned  of  music's  tones, 

And  her  breath  was  but  a  lyre, 
That  faintly  echoed  the  melody 

Of  the  dreamer's  thoughts  of  fire : 

(I  knew,  I  knew  that  it  thus  would  be — 
To-night  I  shall  read  my  destiny  ! 
The  world  may  smile,  for  I  know  it  deems 
These  thoughts  of  mine  are  but  idle  dreams; 
But  I  feel,  I  know,  that  it  must  be  so ! 
There  are  spirits  around,  above,  below — 
And  now,  in  the  glorious  time  of  night, 
They  fill  the  earth  with  their  presence  bright. 
I  see  them  now  with  their  radiant  wings, 
Flitting  about  among  beautiful  things ; 
Flitting  through  sky,  and  earth,  and  air, 
Leaving  new  loveliness  everywhere. 
They  give  to  the  flowers  their  delicate  hue, 
And  place  a  gem  in  each  drop  of  dew ; 
I  see  them  bring  on  their  pinions  fair, 
The  starlight  down  through  the  dreamy  air. 
'Tis  the  wave  of  their  wings  that  startles  the  breeze 
That  murmurs  so  low  in  the  shadowy  trees ; 
They  sail  on  the  waves  of  the  shining  lake, 
And  their  motions  a  rippling  melody  make  ; 
They  breathe  on  the  air  their  soft  perfumes, 
And  they  sleep  in  the  blossoms  with  folded  plumes ; 
They  leave  their  robes  for  the  lily-flower, 
And  the  blush  on  their  cheek  is  the  rose's  dower ; 
And  every  star  has  its  forehead  fair 
Bound  round  with  a  tress  of  their  shining  hair  ; 
Forever  and  ever  they  flit  around, 
Filling  the  earth  with  a  mystic  sound ; 
And  they  say  strange  musical  words  to  me, 
Till  my  soul  is  bewildered  with  melody. 
They  whispered,  last  night,  that  this  hour  I 
Should  read  my  fate  on  the  evening  sky ; 
That  the  shining  stars  would  reveal  to  me 


THE    DREAMER. 


215 


The  book  of  the  dreamer's  destiny. 
I  hear  them  now !  and  they  bid  me  look 
On  the  charmed  page  of  this  mystic  book ! 
Each  star  has  changed  to  a  word  of  light — 
And  this  is  the  fate  that  I  read  to-night : 

"' Beautiful  dreamer!  'tis  but  for  thee 
To  know  of  earth's  hidden  mystery ; 
To  thee  alone  is  it  given  to  see 
The  spell  of  our  secret  ministry. 
Thou  art  our  chosen !  before  whose  eyes 
This  beautiful  world  like  a  clear  page  lies ; 
Each  bud  and  flower  doth  to  thee  possess 
A  new  and  a  wonderful  loveliness — 
And  the  flutter  of  one  green  leaf  will  fill 
Thy  soul  with  a  quick,  low,  quivering  thrill ; 
And  even  the  breath  that  is  given  to  thee 
Is  fraught  with  a  witching  melody, 
Till  even  the  ringing  of  dropping  rain 
Doth  sound  to  thee  like  a  music-strain. 
These  are  the  gifts  which  to  thee  belong, 
Thou  chosen  one  of  the  spirit-throng ! 
But  the  world  is  dark,  and  it  can  not  know 
Of  these  priceless  treasures  which  we  bestow. 
We  have  watched  it  well,  when  it  coldly  smiled 
At  the  beautiful  dreams  of  our  gifted  child  ; 
And  when  it  has  listened,  and  looked,  and  heard, 
Entranced  by  the  charm  of  thine  every  word, 
We  have  seen  its  wonder  and  awed  surprise 
Concealed  by  the  scorn  of  its  envious  eyes  ; 
And  we  know  that  thy  being,  so  frail  and  fair, 
Will  wither  away  in  the  poisoned  air ; 
And  thy  golden  lyre  be  crushed  by  the  weight 
Of  the  cold,  rude  fingers  of  bitter  hate  ! 
We  know  that  on  earth  there  never  lives 
The  earnest  love  that  thy  spirit  gives, 
And  we  sorrow  now  that  we  gave  to  thee 
Those  gifts  which  on  earth  bring  misery ; 


216  LINES. 


But  we  love  thee  still !  and  if  thou  wilt  come, 

We  will  bear  thee  to  heaven — thy  own  bright  home !'  " 

She  had  read  her  fate  !     "  Well,  be  it  so  !" 
Was  her  soft  reply ;  as  with  head  bent  low 
On  her  folded  hands,  and  her  raven  hair 
Forming  a  pall  for  that  form  so  fair, 
And  the  long,  dark  lashes  down-drooping  meek, 
To  the  pale,  and  pearly,  and  smiling  cheek : 
With  these  murmured  words  her  spirit  fled — 
And  the  beautiful  dreamer  of  earth  was  dead ! 


LINES. 

MY  soul  has  been  sleeping 

In  darkness  too  long, 
Forgetful  of  music, 

Of  sunlight,  and  song ! 
It  has  stilled  its  wild  warbles, 

And  folded  its  wings, 
And  slumbered  all  dreamless 

'Mid  beautiful  things. 

The  soft,  holy  starlight 

Has  over  it  crept, 
Nor  won  by  its  beauty 

The  spirit  that  slept : 
Around  it  has  floated 

A  thousand  perfumes — 
Their  breath  never  stirring 

Its  close  folded  plumes. 


LINES. 


217 


And  music  most  thrilling — 

So  wild  and  so  deep — 
Had  no  power  to  awaken 

My  soul  from  its  sleep ! 
Lid-shadowed  its  visions — 

Lip-stilled  its  low  tone — 
From  its  brow  was  the  beauty 

Of  earnest  thought  flown. 

The  lyre  which  its  fingers 

Unconsciously  held, 
No  more  'neath  those  fingers 

With  melody  swelled. 
The  slumber  is  broken — 

The  darkness  is  past! 
My  soul  has  awakened 

To  true  life  at  last ! 

Its  pulses  quick  thrilling 

At  every  thing  bright, 
And  its  plumes  all  a-quiver 

With  startled  delight ! 
Lids  parted  to  starlight, 

Lips  parted  to  song, 
While  around  it  bright  fancies, 

Like  starry  lights,  throng  ! 

'Neath  its  tremulous  fingers 

The  lyre  swells  sweet, 
With  a  tone  too  bewitching 

For  lips  to  repeat. 
Keep  thrilling,  keep  thrilling, 

And  waving  thy  wings  ! 
God  made  thee  to  glory 

In  beautiful  things. 

Now  never,  oh !  never, 

Shall  slumber  enchain 
19 


TO    WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 


The  free-bounding  pulse 

Of  my  spirit  again. 
It  hath  wakened  exulting 

In  life,  love,  and  power ; 
Soul-life  is  immortal — 

Thank  God  for  the  dower ! 


TO  WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT. 

A  LOW,  soft  voice,  of  sweetest  singing, 

Swells  out  upon  the  evening  breeze, 
And  all  the  air  around  seems  ringing 

With  its  fine  floating  harmonies. 
From  yonder  lattice  comes  the  breathing 

Of  that  sad,  sweet,  and  spiritual  song, 
Where  graceful  vines  are  thickly  wreathing, 

And  dewy  roses  clustering  throng. 

I  see  a  face,  like  starlight  shining, 

Glance  out  into  the  dewy  night ; 
I  see  a  white  arm  softly  twining 

Around  a  column  gray  and  light , 
I  see  her  dark  eyes,  upward  throwing 

Their  mournful,  wild,  impassioned  sight  ;— 
I  see  her  wild  hair,  backward  flowing 

Around  a  young  form  sweetly  slight  ; 

I  see  her  red  lips  deeply  flushing, 
And  trembling  with  the  liquid  trill 

Of  music  from  her  bosom  gushing, 
That  all  the  starry  air  doth  fill ; 


TO    WILLIAM    CULLEN    BRYANT. 

'  I  hear  the  melody,  and  wonder 

How  all  the  roses  sparkle  still, 
And  all  the  shadows  sleeping  under, 
Lie  quiet  on  the  soulless  sill. 

Her  song  is  scarce  of  earthly  feeling, 

Yet  something  of  an  earthly  love ; 
Her  deep  tones  still  forever  stealing 

Their  wildest  cadence  from  above ; 
Just  as  her  eyes,  with  their  long  lashes 

Laid  backward  to  her  forehead  high, 
Drink  down  their  softest,  saddest  flashes 

From  the  sweet  starlight  of  the  sky. 

I  know  the  singer  is  immortal, 

Yet  earthly  while  on  earth  she  sighs ; 
But  soon  as  opes  their  radiant  portal, 

That  moment  will  she  reach  the  skies ! 
That  grand,  deep  strain,  as  still  I  hear  it, 

And  see  that  vision  pure  and  rare, 
I  know  it  is  thine  own  song-spirit 

That  chants  unto  the  'tranced  air ! 

There  is  no  harp  whose  grandest  pealing 

Could  flatter  this  pure  bride  of  thine — 
Yet  can  I  choose  one  flower  of  feeling 

And  lay  it  softly  on  her  shrine. 
With  gentle  reverence  I  am  kneeling 

In  her  rare  presence,  proud  and  sweet, 
While  the  bright  starlight  round  me  stealing, 

Like  me,  bends  down  to  kiss  her  feet. 


219 


220 


A    SUMMER    STORM. 


A  SUMMER  STORM. 

HEAR  the  low  wailing  blast  of  the  heralding  breeze 

Rise,  rushing  and  swelling,  above  the  bowed  trees ! 

While,  with  shadowing  wings,  creeping  o'er  the  blue  skies, 

Like  hovering  ravens  the  mighty  clouds  rise, 

As  swiftly  and  surely  they  gather  and  spread ! 

No  sunlight — no  ether — the  storm  is  o'erhead  ! 

Now !  loose  thy  dark  tresses  and  wave  thy  white  wand ! 

Be  ready,  young  Sybil,  the  storm  is  at  hand  ! 

Hush,  hush,  heart,  thy  beating — the  world  is  so  still 

You  would  break  the  awed  silence  by  even  one  thrill. 

'Tis  the  pause  in  the  tempest,  the  moment  of  rest, 

When  the  storm-spirit  looseth  the  sword  'neath  his  breast. 

Oh !  spirit  majestic ;  oh  !  spirit  of  might! 

With  your  glittering  sword  and  your  armor  of  night ; 
I  feel  not  a  fear,  by  thy  wild  ness  though  awed, 
For  thy  Maker  is  mine ;  we  were  fashioned  by  God ! 
Ha !  from  thy  strong  hand  is  a  thunderbolt  hurled  ! 
There's  a  gleam  on  the  forest,  a  flash  o'er  the  world — 
Then  a  mutter,  a  rumble,  a  crash  through  the  sky, 
As  the  voice  of  thine  anger  rolls  sternly  on  high ; 
And  the  silence  shrinks  back,  and  the  giant  trees  creak 
'Neath  the  weight  of  the  breath  that  comes  down  with  a  shriek- 
Then  the  clatter  of  hail  from  thy  wings  shaken  down, 
As  darker  and  fiercer  is  growing  thy  frown ! 
Till  mingling  together  in  tumult  most  grand 
Leap  the  weapons  of  battle  from  out  thy  right  hand, 
Fierce  flashing,  wild  crashing — the  rush  of  the  blast, 
And  the  clatter  of  hail  falling  fast  and  more  fast. 
O  spirit — storm-spirit !  misuse  not  thy  power  ! 
The  earth  does  not  mock  thee  nor  shrink  in  this  hour, 
But  she  beareth  thy  wrath  not  to  fear  or  deride — 
Then  cease  thy  vain  battle,  dark  spirit  of  pride ! 
There  is  something  can  conquer  thine  anger  with  love — 
'Tis  the  smile  of  the  day-god  who  rideth  above. 


A    SUMMER    STORM.  221 


He  has  parted  thy  banners  to  gaze  on  the  world — 

How  gracefully  rolling  those  banners  are  furled. 

Ah !  loosen  thine  armor  and  fold  thy  black  wings — 

Thou  never  canst  war  with  the  glory  he  brings ; 

His  smile  is  upon  thee  and  over  thee  now, 

And  the  frowning  hath  vanished  from  off  thy  wild  brow  ; 

Thy  black  robes  grow  crimson,  thy  pinions  are  gold, 

The  embrace  of  the  sun  round  thy  dark  form  doth  fold. 

What!  melted  to  weeping?     0  beautiful  sight! 

The  storm-spirit  weeping  sweet  tears  of  delight ! 

And  see,  those  soft  tears  dropping  down  from  on  high, 

How  they  glitter  and  gleam  through  the  depths  of  the  sky. 

O  beautiful  wonder !  most  charming  surprise  ! 

The  day-god  hath  caught  them  far  up  in  the  skies, 

And  woven  them  sparkling  like  diamonds  bright, 

In  a  crown  of  such  splendor  as  'wilders  the  sigh.,, 

And  bound  them  thus  rare  on  the  storm-spirit's  brow  ; 

If  in  anger  majestic  how  eloquent  now  ! 

The  battle  is  ended — the  victory  was  love  ; 

How  glorious  the  triumph  that  glitters  above, 

As  he  leadeth  the  spirit,  subdued  yet  how  fair, 

Through  the  splendor  he  makes  in  the  soft  swelling  air. 

The  sun  and  storm-spirit  together  will  rest — 

Together  they're  seeking  their  home  in  the  west ; 

Together  in  glory,  with  banner  half  furled, 

They  have  smiled  their  farewell  to  the  beautiful  world, 

And  went  down  in  their  splendor  together  to  sleep, 

'Neath  the  glittering  waves  of  the  welcoming  deep. 

Now,  Sybil,  young  Sybil,  thank  God  he  hath  made 

A  picture  thus  lovely  with  glitter  and  shade, 

To  be  hung  in  the  temple  where  memory  dwells, 

And  her  lyre  ever  thrilling  with  blissfulness  swells. 

And  lo !  as  I  kneel  'mid  the  fragrance  and  dew, 

A  soft  star  the  twilight  steps  tremblingly  through, 

And  kisses  my  forehead  and  smiles  in  my  eyes, 

As  she  stealeth  my  prayer  to  her  home  in  the  skies  ! 


222  STARLIGHT: 


STARLIGHT. 

THERE  were  startles  in  my  slumber  and  I  had  uneasy  dreams, 
And  the  night  of  sleep  was  broken  with  wild,  fitful,  feverish  gleams ; 
For  my  heart  was  almost  broken  ere  my  pillow  I  had  sought ; 
And  my  soul  was  almost  maddened  with  such  sorrow  was  it  fraught. 
A  mocking,  taunting  image  filled  my  sleep  with  bitter  pain, 
Telling  it  of  past  enchantment  that  should  never  be  again, 
When  a  sudden,  silent  presence  o'er  my  pillow  softly  broke — 
Calm,  subdued,  and  comprehending,  then  my  mournful  soul  awoke. 
I  knew  by  intuition  that  a  spirit  hovered  near, 
And  I  lay  in  placid  wonder  but  without  a  thrill  of  fear. 
Through  the  shadows  of  the  roses  with  their  perfume  and  their  dew, 
By  the  open  casement  bending  came  the  silent  spirit  through ; 
And  its  feet  were  on  my  pillow,  silver  feet  they  were  and  bright, 
And  its  eyes  were  bent  upon  me  with  a  soft,  sweet,  solemn  light. 
Stiller  than  the  stillest  midnight  gazed  it  down  into  my  eyes, 
And  the  wherefore  of  its  presence  filled  me  with  a  mute  surprise. 
The  memory  of  my  sorrow,  my  wild  and  withering  woe, 
And  the  visions  of  my  slumber  that  had  flitted  to  and  fro, 
Made  me  think  the  still,  white  spirit  came  to  bring  me  some  relief 
From  the  bitterness  of  anguish  and  the  hopelessness  of  grief. 
Through  the  awe  that  overcame  me  my  despairing  soul  out-broke, 
And  to  the  still,  deep  vision  with  eagerness  I  spoke  : 
"Starlight!  rare  and  radiant  starlight!  wherefore  did  you  leave 

your  home 

'Mid  the  jewels  and  the  azure  of  yon  grand  and  glittering  dome  ? 
Did  you  know  my  heart  was  broken — did  you  know  my  fate  was 

crossed  ? 

Did  you  come  to  teach  the  mystery  of  regaining  what  is  lost  ? 
Did  you  come  to  soothe  my  mourning  and  to  cool  my  fevered  brain, 
And  to  whisper  of  life's  sweetness  to  my  aching  heart  again? 
0  spirit!  sweet,  pale  spirit!  he  who  loved  me  and  caressed, 
With  his  kiss  upon  my  forehead  and  my  cheek  upon  his  breast — 
Him  to  whom  I  gave  the  reverence  and  the  trusting  of  a  child, 
With  the  earnest  love  of  woman,  deep  and  passionate  and  wild — 


STARLIGHT. 


223 


All  the  madness  and  the  power  and  the  fervor  of  my  soul — 
Its  wild  and  burning  eloquence  gushing  out  without  control — 
We  have  parted  in  deep  bitterness,  have  used  the  words  of  scorn, 
Have  torn  the  roses  of  our  love  and  clasped  the  cruel  thorn — 
Have  mocked  at  bygone  sweetness  and  smiled  at  what  we  lost, 
And  our  words  have  fell  in  coldness  as  the  winter  spray  drops  frost. 
Pale  starlight!  did  you  seek  me  from  your  chamber  up  in  heaven, 
To  tell  me  how  to  win  again  the  jewels  I  have  given  ? 
Have  you  no  draught  of  Lethe?  no  magic  did  you  being, 
To  make  the  roses  blossom  and  to  heal  the  bitter  sting?" 
But  the  spirit  yet  was  silent  and  its  robes  grew  paler  still, 
And  it  gazed  upon  me  with  a  gaze  that  made  my  bosom  thrill ; 
Its  eyes  were  sad  and  solemn  and  it  seemed  to  mock  my  grief, 
And  to  pitiless  reproach  me  that  my  sorrow  sought  relief. 
"Starlight!"  pleaded  I  in  anguish,  "oh,  sweet  starlight,  hear  my 

prayer — 

From  my  heart  so  sad  and  weary  take  away  this  weight  of  care. 
Do  you  think  that  we  should  suffer  all  the  anguish  we  incurred 
When  we  taunted  true  affection  with  a  cold  and  stinging  word  ? 
Have  you  learned  no  gentle  pity  from  the  angels  up  above? 
Do  you  not  know  the  waywardness  of  wildly  passionate  love  ? 
Tell  me  if  our  injured  spirits  shall  forget  the  hapless  past, 
Or  if  all  will  be  forgiven  and  our  souls  be  blent  at  last ." 
But  the  pallid  vision  hovered  with  no  answer  'round  my  bed, 
And  its  silver  footsteps  trembled  on  the  pillow  'neath  my  head. 
A  solemn  awe  was  o'er  it  that  my  mad  soul  could  not  brook — 
I  could  not  bear  the  agony  of  meeting  its  mute  look. 
"Starlight!  mocking  starlight !"  pleaded  I,  "away!  away! 
On  the  anguish  past  endurance  bring  no  more  of  grief  to  lay ! 
Leave  me — leave  me  to  my  mourning  !  take  away  your  solemn  eyes  ! 
Take  back  your  taunting  radiance  to  yonder  silent  skies  ! 
I  knew  the  hollow -heartedness  of  earthly  forms  of  love — 
Why  came  you  to  destroy  the  hope  of  sympathy  above  ?" 
But  the  pale,  cold,  silver  starlight  would  not  let  me  sink  to  rest, 
But  crept  closer,  till  its  fingers  lay  like  ice  upon  my  breast ; 
And  I  moaned  in  helpless  agony  and  turned  my  face  away, 
And  with  my  hand  upon  my  eyes  I  waited  for  the  day. 


224  PLEADINGS. 


PLEADINGS. 

A  SHADOW  has  lain  on  my  soul  all  day — 
Sunlight  and  gladness  have  staid  away. 
Heavy  and  cold  has  the  shadow  prest 
Like  palpable  darkness  upon  my  breast ; 
Sadness  and  silence  are  in  our  room, 
Better  befitting  my  spirit's  gloom — 
Sister  !  sweet  sister  !  oh,  come  away, 
From  the  music  wild  and  the  dancers  gay ! 

Who  twined  these  roses  amid  my  hair? 
Who  decked  my  form  in  these  robings  fair? 
Are  they  befitting  the  heart  they  fold? 
My  cheek  is  pale  and  my  lip  is  cold ! 
The  lamps  and  flowers  too  brilliant  seem, 
They  'wilder  my  sight  like  a  mocking  dream — 
Sister  !  sweet  sister !  oh,  come  away, 
From  the  music  wild  and  the  dancers  gay ! 

Seeks  he  ever  such  revels  now  ? 

He  sits  'neath  the  stars  with  a  pale,  stern  brow, 

And  his  soul  grows  wild  that  our  perfect  trust 

Lies  shivered  and  dark  in  the  mourning  dust ; 

And  his  calm  lip  curls  with  a  bitter  scorn 

At  the  love  and  faith  which  are  earthly  born — 

Sister !  sweet  sister  !  oh,  come  away, 

From  the  music  wild  and  the  dancers  gay  ! 

I  can  not  smile  at  each  merry  glance — 

I  move  in  a  dream  through  the  gliding  dance — 

My  thought  has  flown  to  the  starlight  dim 

That  hovers  with  silver  step  near  him. 

Never !  oh,  never  !  shall  we  again 

Soothe  from  each  other  the  throb  of  pain — 


THE    POET'S    DECLARATION.  225 


Sister  !  sweet  sister !  oh,  come  away, 
From  the  music  wild  and  the  dancers  gay ! 

A  shadow  has  lain  on  my  soul  all  day — 
Vainly  I  whisper  it,  "  Flee  away  !" 
Chill  and  heavy,  and  silent  and  slow, 
It  sinks  more  dark  o'er  the  pale,  still  woe 
That  fainting  lies  in  my  spirit's  gloom, 
Mocked  by  this  light  and  this  sweet  perfume — 
Sister !  sweet  sister !  oh,  come  away, 
From  the  music  wild  and  the  dancers  gay ! 

I've  plead  with  the  shadow  to  leave  my  breast ! 
I've  striven  to  banish  my  soul's  unrest ! 
But  I  only  hear  in  the  music's  tone 
A  solemn  sound,  like  a  smothered  moan, 
And  I  only  see  where  the  lamp-light  lies, 
The  mournful  gaze  of  those  proud,  sad  eyes — 
Sister !  sweet  sister  !  oh,  come  away, 
From  the  music  wild  and  the  dancers  gay ! 


THE   POET'S   DECLARATION. 

TWILIGHT  shadows  gathering  'round  me, 
Firelight  flickering  on  the  wall, 

With  their  waving  drapery  bound  me — 
Bound  me  and  the  quaint  old  hall — 

Quaint  old  hall  where  I  sat  dreaming 
Idly  in  an  antique  chair, 
Watching  the  fitful  firelight  rare ! 

Spiritual  visitors  sought  and  found  me 
Musing  'mid  the  drapery  there. 


226 


Every  time  that  the  shadows  shifted 

Then  would  the  drapery  rise  and  fall — 
Gliding  in  when  the  curtains  lifted, 

Visions  came  at  my  fanciful  call — 
Faint,  fair  visions,  wonderful  spirits, 

Came  and  looked  into  my  eyes 

Too  calm  to  waken  a  soft  surprise — 
Silent  their  steps  as  the  light  that  rifted 

The  dim  sweet  that  around  them  lies. 

Was  I  afraid  when  my  tinkling  fancies 

Called  these  forms  to  my  grand  old  chair  ? 
Ah,  no  !  eager  for  quaint  romances, 

Awe  and  terror  forgotten  were. 
Sitting  calm  as  a  stately  emperor, 

After  the  silvery  summons  rung 

Waited  I  till  the  visitants  sprung 
With  steps  like  those  when  a  star-beam  dances, 

Through  where  the  rifted  drapery  hung. 

Faint,  faint  forms  and  sweet,  sweet  faces 

Hovered  about  in  the  dreamy  light, 
Dimly  embodying  eloquent  graces, 

Floating  tresses  and  mantles  bright. 
And  I  will  tell  you — love,  will  you  listen  ? 

Of  one  visitant  dear  and  fair 

Who  came  glidingly  to  my  chair — 
Hers  was  the  purest  of  all  pure  faces, 

Wild  and  dark  was  her  unbound  hair. 

Rare  young  vision  !  that  dark  hair  flowing 

Wound  on  the  air  like  the  wing  of  a  bird  ; 
Sweet  was  her  cheek  with  its  crimson  glowing — 

Sweet  was  her  voice  with  its  one  wild  word — 
One  wild  word  that  she  murmured  ever — 

One  low,  clear,  continued  word, 

Like  a  tinkling  stream  through  shadows  heard, 
Over  her  lip  in  music  flowing ! 

"Love!"  dear,  "love,"  was  the  whispered  word. 


THE    POET'S    DECLARATION. 


227 


Closer  and  closer  her  white  robe  fluttered 

Through  the  dim  drapery  the  twilight  made — 

Softer  and  lower  the  word  that  she  uttered — 
Over  my  forehead  her  faint  breath  played ! 

Her  faint  breath  played  and  her  slender  fingers 
Lifted  aside  my  careless  hair 
With  a  touch  as  soft  as  a  touch  of  air ; 

And  she  kissed  my  brow  as  I  wondering  muttered, 
"  Love  ?"  ay,  "  love,"  answered  young  lips  rare. 

One  white  arm  with  a  way  caressing 

Lay  like  a  wreath  around  my  hair ; 
Close  to  mine  was  her  warm  cheek  pressing, 

Close  in  mine  lay  her  fingers  fair. 
The  hours  went  by  and  the  firelight  flickered, 

Yet  the  sweet  dream  still  breathed  on  me 

Till  my  soul  was  flooded  with  ecstasy ; 
And  her  voice  was  soft  as  an  angel's  blessing ! 

All  winter  I  wondered  what  this  might  be. 

But  ah  !  sweet  spring !  one  eve  reclining 
'Mid  crimson  flowers  and  fragrant  air, 

The  wonder  ceased !  before  me  shining 
I  saw  that  face  and  fluttering  hair ! 

My  heart  throbbed  up  with  wild  emotion 
And  her  cheek  flushed  a  deeper  hue, 
Till  she  looked  so  like — so  like — like  you! 

For  the  word  she  uttered  I'm  weary  pining — 
Dearest,  now  may  the  dream  come  true  ? 


228  THE    DEAD    MOTHER. 


THE  DEAD  MOTHER. 

SWEET  mother !  thou  art  dead  !     I  feel  it  now  ; 

Thy  pallid  face  once  oh  !  so  sweet  and  fair — 
The  death-dew  damp  upon  thy  pale,  cold  brow 

So  strangely  white  beneath  its  parted  hair — 
The  curtained  eye  from  whence  all  light  hath  fled, 
The  still,  drooped  lid — oh,  mother  1  thou  art  dead ! 

Dear  mother !  speak  to  me  !  it  is  thy  boy 
Who  calls  so  wildly  on  thy  name  the  while  : 

One  little  word  would  bring  such  raptured  joy  1 
Thou  dost  not  speak — thou  dost  not  even  smile. 

Upon  thy  moveless  lip  there  is  no  breath — 

It  does  not  even  quiver — this  is  death ! 

Oh,  mother !  look  on  me  !     The  dark  still  fringe 
Rests  all  too  heavy  on  thy  ashy  cheek, 

On  which  the  sleeping  blood  has  left  no  tinge, 
And  the  love-smile  will  never,  never  speak. 

Thou  wilt  not  look  on  me — not  let  one  gleam 

Of  deep  affection  from  thy  closed  eyes  beam. 

Dear  mother  !  thou  art  cold — thy  hand  is  chill — 
It  answers  not  the  pressure  of  my  own — 

Thy  heart  knows  no  emotion — feels  no  chill — 
Hushed  on  thy  lip  is  its  low,  loving  tone; 

The  folded  linen  motionless  doth  rest 

In  snowy  whiteness  on  thy  chilly  breast. 

I  had  a  dream  last  night — I  was  a  child — 
Thy  fingers  toyed  amid  my  curls,  and  thou 

Bent  fondly  over  me  and  sweetly  smiled, 
Leaving  a  mother's  kiss  upon  my  brow ; 

I  heard  thy  voice  and  saw  thy  dear  eyes  beam — 

Alas  !  alas  !  that  it  should  be  a  dream  t 


HUMILITY.  229 

Oh,  mother  !  can  it  be  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

That  I  must  live  and  yet  not  have  thee  near? — 
That  I  must  suffer  and  still  on, 

Apart  from  her  to  my  lone  heart  most  dear  ? 
My  brain  grows  dizzy  and  my  brow  doth  ache — 
My  weary,  weary  heart  will  surely  break ! 

Sweet  mother !  they  have  closed  the  coffin-lid, 

And  shut  thee  up  within  its  awful  gloom, 
And  thy  dear  form  forever  now  is  hid, 

And  left  to  moulder  in  the  damp,  dark  tomb. 
Away  with  tears  !  the  mockery  of  grief! 
My  maddened  sorrow  findeth  no  relief ! 

Dear  mother !  I  do  know,  if  thou  wert  here, 

That  thou  wouldst  chide  the  wildness  of  my  woe; 

And  so  no  sign  of  suffering  shall  appear — 

I'll  hush  the  heart-strings  that  are  quivering  so — 

Thinking  thy  spirit  hovers  'round  me  still, 

I  will  be  calm — will  quiet  each  sad  thrill. 


HUMILITY. 

THERE'S  a  quaint  and  quiet  comer 
In  my  soul  hath  dwelt  all  day, 

With  her  white  hands  softly  folded, 
And  her  robe  of  sober  gray — 

But  in  vain  have  brighter' dwellers 
Sought  to  frighten  her  away. 

Once  to-day,  a  radiant  sparkler, 

With  a  face  of  roguish  glee, 
Glided  up,  and  asked  demurely 
20 


230  HUMILITY. 


What  the  comer's  name  might  be? 
And  she  raised  her  eyes  and  answered, 
Low  and  soft,  "  Humility." 

And  the  little  dancer  wondered 
That  she  had  such  lovely  eyes, 

And  almost  wished  her  crimson  lips 
Could  make  such  sweet  replies ; 

Yet  such  a  face  with  such  a  dress 
Still  filled  her  with  surprise. 

And  she  scorned  the  quiet  comer 
With  the  brown  and  braided  hair, 

For  her  own  flowed  down  in  ringlets, 
And  was  looped  with  flowers  fair, 

And  she  did  not  fancy  sober  robes 
When  hers  with  gems  shone  rare. 

So  no  one  sought  the  stranger 

With  the  sweet  head  bowed  so  low— 

With  the  fair  and  placid  forehead, 
And  the  hands  as  white  as  snow  ; 

But  she  smiled  to  be  neglected 
As  the  rest  passed  to  and  fro. 

But  the  evening  now  is  coming 
When  my  soul  shuts  up  its  halls, 

And  the  silvery  voice  of  music 
To  the  evening  worship  calls 

All  the  thousand  flitting  dwellers 
That  have  been  within  its  walls. 

The  dancing  and  the  singing  ones 

Are  weary  of  their  play ; 
They  come  with  lingering  footsteps 

And  tones  no  longer  gay, 
And  gather  sad  and  silently 

Tn  mute  and  tired  array. 


DEATH    AT    MIDNIGHT.  231 


And  some,  the  dark  and  restless  ones, 
Have  wandered  off  and  died, 

And  many  grand  and  lofty  ones 
Have  yielded  up  their  pride ; — 

With  broken  wings  and  broken  lutes 
They  gather  side  by  side. 

And  now  the  meek-browed  stranger, 
With  the  robe  of  pensive  gray, 

With  a  face  of  holy  calmness 
Bends  quietly  to  pray  ; 

And  from  her  form  the  mantle 
Of  meekness  falls  away ; 

And  underneath  is  flowing 

A  robe  like  sunset  fair, 
And,  her  golden  wings  unfolding, 

She  floats  into  the  air ! 
And  now  I  know  I've  "entertained 

An  angel  unaware!" 


DEATH  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

WHY  have  I  started  from  my  dreams  ? 
The  soft,  sweet  starlight  round  me  gleams, 
A  tinkling  sound  of  silver  streams 

Doth  faintly  sing  and  sigh ; 
The  wind  doth  come  like  fingers  fair, 
And  from  my  forehead  lift  my  hair, 
And  calmly  through  the  swelling  air 

The  stars  look  from  the  sky. 
This  is  my  last,  last  living  sleep  ! 


232  DEATH    AT    MIDNIGHT. 


I  do  not  wake  to  vigils  keep, 
Nor  yet  to  struggle  or  to  weep — 
I  wake  to  pray  and  die. 

My  mother  slumbers  with  no  fear, 
And  all  these  cherished  ones  and  dear, 
Undreaming  what  is  passing  here, 

Sleep  softly  till  the  light. 
I  wonder  if  before  this  day, 
Ever,  like  me,  so  young  and  gay, 
In^loneliness  has  passed  away 

A  spirit  in  the  night, 
With  no  one  by,  her  lips  to  press, 
To  give  and  take  the  last  caress, 
To  speak  of  heaven,  to  pray,  to  bless, 

And  tell  of  angels  bright? 

So  softly  does  my  pulse  grow  still, 
So  sweetly  does  my  faint  heart  thrill, 
There  is  no  terror  in  the  chill 

That  creeps  into  my  breast. 
My  wild,  high  spirit  longs  to  go, 
It  was  so  restless  here  below — 
Sweet  visions  hover  to  and  fro — 

This  is  a  pleasant  rest ! 
Yet  half  I  wish  the  world  had  heard 
The  grand,  rare  music  that  hath  stirred, 
Unspoken  yet  by  song  or  word, 

The  throbbings  of  my  breast. 

I  wonder  if  my  friends  will  weep, 
When,  waking  from  their  quiet  sleep, 
They  find  my  slumber  is  the  deep, 

Deep  slumber  of  the  grave  ! 
That  all  their  tenderness  and  care, 
And  many  a  wild  and  anxious  prayer, 
And  all  his  desolate  despair 

My  young  life  may  not  save — 


DEATH    AT    MIDNIGHT. 


233 


That  there  is  no  more  soul  in  me 
Than  there  is  light  within  the  sea 
When  midnight  shroudeth  silently 
The  still  and  shadowed  wave. 

Sweet  Heaven !  be  merciful  to  all 
When  on  Thy  name  they  wailing  call, 
And  do  not  let  my  shadow  fall 

Upon  one  sunny  way  ; 
Let  no  one  yearn,  with  mourning  bowed, 
To  rest  within  the  cold,  fair  shroud, 
That  lies  as  lies  a  waving  cloud 

Around  my  pale,  still  clay. 
Sweet,  solemn  music,  soft  and  slow — 
The  starry  air  doth  'round  me  flow — 
The  curtain  waveth  to  and  fro — 

They  call  my  soul  away ! 

It  is  a  beautiful  thing  to  die ! 
To  pass  away  while  calm  I  lie 
With  eyes  uplifted  to  the  sky 

And  only  stars  to  see ! 
When  all  my  soul  was  in  a  storm, 
And  sorrow  shook  my  suffering  form, 
And  bitter  woes  chilled  yearnings  warm, 

Death !  I  have  pined  for  thee 
To  still  my  pulse — and  yet !  oh,  yet ! 
Strange,  that  I  could  this  hour  forget 
How  sweet  was  life  since  we  two  met — 

Since  soul  and  soul  met  we ! 


How  sweet !  since  with  uplifted  eyes 
We  sat  beneath  the  sapphire  skies — 
While  hand  in  hand  all  warmly  lies — 

And  bosoms  softly  beat — 
With  oh !  such  rare  and  spiritual  thought, 
To  our  hushed  souls  by  evening  brought, 


DEATH    AT    MIDNIGHT. 

While  lips,  with  love's  low  eloquence  fraught, 
Ran  o'er  with  murmurs  sweet. 

Yet  even  his  love,  his  words,  his  kiss, 

Once  wild,  intense,  and  fervid  bliss, 

I  can  resign  when  death  like  this 
Comes  pleading  to  my  feet. 

I  see  such  waving  arms  and  hair — 
Such  white  robes  fluttering  on  the  air — 
Such  starry  eyes  and  foreheads  fair 

Come  glistening  'round  my  head ! 
The  drapery  waveth  soft  and  low, 
The  shadows  creep  and  quiver  so, 
And  perfumed  roses  come  and  go 

'Mid  dew  on  roses  shed — 
And  like  a  visible  silver  stream 
That  melts  to  an  invisible  dream, 
Soft  waves  of  music  swell  and  gleam 

And  float  around  my  bed. 

I  faint — I  die — oh,  lover  dear — 

Oh  !  fond  ones  that  are  slumbering  near, 

You  could  not  weep  one  mournful  tear 

Above  my  shrouded  clay, 
If  you  could  list  this  melody, 
These  radiant  angels  could  you  see, 
And  know  with  what  soft  ecstasy 

I  fainted  slow  away  ; 
You  would  dread,  nor  weep,  nor  fear 
The  glory  and  the  rapture  here — 
Farewell — farewell!  oh,  sleepers  dear! 

In  heaven  for  all  I'll  pray. 

This  perfume  takes  away  my  breath  ! 
This  music  swells  my  form  beneath, 
And  bears  me  on  the  waves  of  death — 
So  softly  do  I  lie. 


ENDURANCE. 


235 


Sweet  spirits — stars — deep  angel  eyes 
That  smile  upon  me  through  the  skies — 
Oh,  floating  sounds  that  'round  me  rise 

And  bear  me  high — more  high  ! 
Bewildered  heart — so  still — so  still — 
My  blissful  spirit  can  not  thrill — 
I  faint — sweet  Heaven,  be  with  me  still — 
float — I  faint — I  die. 


ENDURANCE. 

THE  deepest  mourning  that  the  human  heart 
Can  ache  with  and  not  break,  is  mine  to-night. 
It  is  not  softened  grief,  so  beautiful ; 
It  does  not  lay  a  thin  and  wasted  hand 
Upon  the  plaintive  strings  of  a  sweet  lyre, 
And  with  its  eyes  upraised  chant  saddened  hymns ! 
Nor  does  it  beat  with  the  quick  agony 
That  breaks  the  iron  bars  of  reason  down, 
And  from  mind's  cage  flies  with  wild,  burning  wings, 
Whose  quivering  motions  set  themselves  on  fire 
Until  they  perish  in  their  fearful  flight. 
It  is  not  madness !  and  it  is  not  grief ! 
But  deep,  abiding,  and  black,  solemn  woe 
That  presses  with  a  heavy,  heavy  hand 
Upon  my  bosom,  till  no  life  is  there — 
Nor  even  the  desolate  music  of  despair — 
Nor  the  grand  funeral  gloom  of  coffined  sleep — 
Nor  the  disheveled  dress  of  sorrow  pale. 
It  is  not  life — and  yet  it  is  not  death ! 
But  oh  !  as  if  my  heart  lay  beating  thick 
And  throbbing  slowly  in  its  muffled  gloom, 


236 


ENDURANCE. 


Apart,  alone,  beneath  the  damp,  dark  earth, 

A  thousand,  thousand  feet  in  buried  life ! 

Who  can  conceive  such  close,  oppressive  woe — 

Such  helpless,  hopeless,  heavy  agony  ? 

My  heart — my  heart !  buried  alive  !  so  far 

From  love  and  light,  and  music  and  the  stars ! 

How  fearfully  and  slowly  it  beats  up, 

To  make  itself  a  little  room  to  throb, 

To  pant,  to  gasp,  within  its  terrible  grave ! 

How  heavily  the  cold  weight  presses  down ! 

How  shall  I  save  my  heart — once  eloquent  heart — 

That  sung  and  bounded  in  the  light  of  joy? 

The  days  to  me  will  be  like  centuries ! 

Endure — endure — endure  the  fearful  fate 

That  prisons  up  within  its  horrible  gloom 

The  soul  that  would  grow  wild,  if  it  had  room  ! 

Say,  shall  I  crush  my  writhing  lip  between 

The  teeth  that  grate  and  clench  themselves  in  pain 

Say,  shall  I  wring  my  twining  hands  till  they 

Have  crushed  their  quivering  fingers  in  their  clasp, 

And  smite  my  forehead  on  the  chilly  wall, 

And  start  and  rise,  and  shriek  and  pace  my  room 

With  steps  as  if  the  floor  were  red-hot  iron  ? 

Oh,  no,  no,  no !  I  have  no  such  relief ! 

I  would  that  I  could  mourn  as  others  mourn ! 

Come  madness,  with  your  fearful  phantasies  ! 

Come  wailing  song,  come  tears,  come  frantic  grief! 

Come  every  mocking  shape  of  fearfulness — 

Come  terror  and  sharp  pain — cohie  any  thing ! 

Except  this  suffocating,  throbbing  woe — 

This  close,  oppressive,  endless  misery ! 

Would  I  could  die !  but  my  heart  dieth  not ; 

It  is  as  if  a  thousand  years  from  now, 

Strong,  sinewy  hands  should  toil,  and  toil,  and  toil, 

Lifting  up,  one  by  one,  cold,  heavy  stones, 

And  mouldy  earths,  and  ruins  of  the  past, 

Till  deep  below,  pressed  round  by  chilly  soil, 

They  found  my  heart — yet  beating — beating  still, 


ENDURANCE. 


237 


Slowly  and  sullenly,  against  the  weight 

Of  darkness  and  of  damp  that  built  it  up 

So  deep,  and  close,  and  terrible  a  grave. 

Endure !  that  word  is  to  me  like  the  star 

That  seems  so  insignificant  to  the  eye 

Of  him  who  looks  but  does  not  comprehend — 

Yet  to  the  one  who  reads  its  mystery, 

Is  full  of  life  and  pain  and  centuries — 

Ay !  of  eternity  and  soul  and  GOD  ! 

The  golden  stars  once  to  my  happy  eyes 

Were  burning  thoughts  of  bliss  and  eloquence ; 

But  now  they  fashion  that  one  word — endure ! 

And  every  sullen  pulse  of  my  slow  heart 

Mutters  and  murmurs  o'er  the  endless  word. 

I  press  my  cold  hands  over  it  and  plead 

And  say,  hush — hush,  my  heart !  my  heart,  be  still ! 

Yet  with  a  solemn  throbbing  it  keeps  on. 

Oh  !  if  I  could  but  free  this  prisoned  pain, 

And  expiate  endurance  in  one  shriek, 

Methinks  the  terrified  night  at  that  wild  shriek 

Would  faint  into  the  arms  of  the  pale  shades 

That  from  all  haunted  ruins  and  deep  graves 

Would  rush  and  startle,  moan  and  die  away  ! 

The  miners  toil  not  down  through  fearful  pits 

As  my  hopes  toil  to  reach  my  buried  heart — 

Yet  find  it  not,  and  perish  while  they  toil. 

Yet  this  sad,  aching  thing,  in  days  gone  by, 

Was  like  a  rose-tree  in  a  summer-clime — 

All  full  of  singing  birds  and  perfume  sweet, 

And  fresh  white  tears  dropped  by  the  sparkling  stars. 

]S[OW — oh,  now  !  it  weeps  not,  sings  not,  loves  not ! 

But  from  its  grave  there  comes  a  hollow  sound — 

A  gasping,  and  a  throbbing,  and  a  moan — 

Repeating  o'er  and  o'er,  endure — endure! 

And  why  and  wherefore  is  this  living  grave 

I  know  not;  this  I  know — my  happy  heart 

Was  full  of  bliss,  and  tenderness,  and  music, 

When  a  dark  woe  came  up  and  breathed  on  it, 


238 


THE    WINDS. 


Till  with  a  sigh  it  fainted  in  my  breast. 
Despair  said  hurriedly,  "  'Tis  dead— 'tis  dead !" 
And  while  my  young  joys  gathered  'round  and  wept, 
Sad  sorrow  sang  the  solemn  funeral  hymn — 
And  thus  they  buried  it — and  now  it  wakes 
To  gasp  forever  in  its  terrible  grave. 
Heaven's  great  magnificence  and  earth's  delight — 
All  splendor,  grandeur,  sunshine,  and  sweet  hopes — 
All  revelations  of  the  wonderful — 
All  storms  of  terror  and  all  calms  of  joy, 
Are  hid  from  it  forever — evermore  ! 
But  in  its  grave  are  hidden  these  two  things — 
Endurance  and  Eternity. 


THE  WINDS. 

A  LOVELY  girl  leaned  from  an  open  casement. 
She  was,  of  all,  the  most  surpassing  fair — 
For  surely  nothing  we  regard  as  so 
Was  like  to  her  in  perfectness  of  fairness, 
Just  like  the  brightness  of  succeeding  waves 
That  lose  themselves  in  shade  and  gleam  again  ; 
The  golden  river  of  her  shining  hair 
Flowed  round  the  beauty  of  her  youthful  form — 
That  shone  from  out  that  stream  of  glorious  hair, 
Like  a  sweet  island  in  a  southern  clime, 
Smiling  amid  its  rippling  waves  of  gold. 
There  was  a  blended  beauty  in  her  face, 
Of  all  the  starry  lights  that  burn  in  heaven, 
And  all  the  tinted  flowers  that  glow  on  earth. 
Her  white  young  forehead,  shadowed  by  her  hair, 
Had  a  soft,  spiritual  development, 
Made  earthly  only  by  its  passionate  brows ; 


THE    WINDS. 


239 


1 


And  'neath  them  shone  those  soft  out-glancing  eyes — 

Those  large,  pure,  loving  eyes—those  fathomless  eyes— 

Those  bright  and  blue,  those  fringed  and  shaded  eyes  ! 

Her  sweetly  curved  and  eloquent  red  lips 

Were  parted  in  the  eagerness  of  joy ! 

A  faint,  fresh  color  wavered  in  her  cheek, 

As  if  it  knew  not  or  to  stay  or  go ; 

There  was  a  smile  in  that  bright  glance  of  hers, 

As  if  she  looked  for  flowers — on  that  red  lip, 

As  if  it  fain  would  call  the  singing-birds — 

And  that  uncertain  glow  upon  her  cheek, 

Said — «  Ah,  they  are— they  are  not — are  they  come  ?" 

It  was  a  young  Spring  day,  balmy  and  fresh, 

And  the  warm  wind  came  to  her,  telling  tales 

How  the  green  grass  was  creeping  from  the  earth, 

And  the  bright  buds  were  glowing  in  the  dell — 

And  as  she  felt  its  breath,  so  full  of  sweets, 

She  wondered  if  the  violets  had  come ; 

And  lingered  at  the  casement,  thrilled  and  blessed 

By  the  soft  touches  of  the  balmy  wind, 

With  a  soft  fluttering  motion,  from  her  arms, 

Her  bosom,  and  her  girdle,  floated  back 

The  airy  muslin  of  her  simple  robe. 

She  wore  no  jewels  and  no  snowy  pearls — 

They  would  have  shown  like  baubles  upon  her — 

So  delicate,  so  refined  her  loveliness  ; 

And  all  the  golden  waves  upon  her  neck, 

Glittered  the  more  the  wind  came  up, 

And  kissed  her  beautiful  throat  in  loving  joy  ; 

Ah  !  that  uncertain  joy  and  eagerness  ! 

That  asking,  bright'ning  glance  and  flushing  cheek! 

That  trembling  eloquence  of  the  glad  lip  ! 

This  young  Spring  wind  so  full  of  sweets  to  come — 

So  full  of  buds  that  sometimes  would  be  flowers 

What  was  this  young  Spring  wind  that  breathed  such  tales  ? 

Again — the  maiden  sat  within  her  bower ! 
Her  little  snow-soft  hands,  in  placid  rest, 


240  THE    WINDS. 


Lay  folded  motionless  within  her  lap  ; 

The  light  of  dreams  lay  like  a  silver  vail, 

Over  and  all  around  her  glowing  form — 

Softening  the  splendor  of  her  radiance ; 

Her  still,  soft,  sapphire  eyes  were  downward  cast, 

To  hide  the  little  blisses  floating  round 

In  the  clear  liquid  of  their  azure  depths, 

While,  with  a  tremulous  and  golden  gleam, 

The  long,  bright  lashes  drooped  above  those  eyes. 

A  warm,  sweet,  loving  glow  was  on  the  lip 

That  smiled  and  murmured  with  her  rosy  dreams ; 

And  the  once  wavering  flush  upon  her  cheek, 

Had  deepened  to  the  richness  of  content. 

There  was  deep  meaning  on  her  brilliant  brow — 

So  placid  yet  so  passionate  its  repose ; 

Oh  !  beautiful  was  she,  and  soft  her  dreams ! 

The  while  she  mused  the  soft  south  wind  stole  up, 

And  stirred  the  drapery  of  her  still  form ; 

It  was  not  damp  with  violets — 'but  rich 

With  roses,  and  magnolias,  and  carnations, 

And  lilies  spotless  as  her  youthful  brow. 

This  Summer  wind,  so  heavy  with  perfume, 

The  lady  breathed  in  with  her  smiling  lips, 

And  still,  as  if  no  offering  was  meet 

For  one  so  glorious  and  so  fair  as  her, 

It  brought  up  rarer  fragrance  on  its  wings, 

To  mingle  with  the  blisses  of  her  dream  ; 

This  Summer  wind,  full  of  delicious  sweets — 

Bearing  such  perfume  on  its  waving  wings — 

What  was  this  Summer  wind  so  full  of  sweets  ? 

The  maiden  wandered  in  the  Autumn  Avood, 
The  crisp  red  leaves  rustled  beneath  her  feet — 
Those  fairy,  delicate,  and  wayward  feet; 
The  frost  had  come,  and  witli  its  chilly  hand 
Painted  the  forest  in  gay,  gorgeous  hues. 
So  had  a  frost  fell  on  the  lovely  girl, 
And  made  her  radiance  more  splendid  still — 


THE    WINDS.  241 


Brighter  and  redder  than  the  reddest  leaf 

Was  the  wild  crimson  of  her  burning  cheek ; 

Her  lip  was  restless  as  the  quivering  leaves, 

And  moaned  and  muttered  as  the  forest  did ; 

Her  eyes  were  clearer  than  the  azure  sky, 

And  changing  as  the  glitter  of  a  star 

In  ocean  depths,  and  brilliant  as  the  sun. 

As  the  green  leaves  were  withered  in  a  night, 

So  were  her  hopes  changed  to  this  gay  despair ; 

At  times  she  sang  a  low  and  pleasant  song, 

Then  moaned  and  murmured  as  she  hurried  on 

With  quick,  irregular  steps  and  clasped  hands ; 

And  ever,  as  she  walked,  the  Autumn  wind 

Swept  past  her  with  a  mutter  like  her  own — 

And  tore  the  bright  leaves  rustling  from  the  bough — 

And  bore  her  golden  hair  upon  its  wings, 

Far  backward  with  its  glittering  length  of  beauty — 

Or  held  her  black  dress  with  a  trembling  hand — 

Or  sighed  in  echo  to  her  broken  sigh — 

Or  sang  and  murmured,  when  her  mood  was  soft — 

Or  moaned  a  wild  reply  unto  her  madness ; 

This  mad  and  wayward  maiden,  and  this  wind, 

As  mad  and  wayward,  hurried  through  the  wood. 

Oh,  Autumn  wind,  as  sweetly,  sadly  wild 

As  that  fair  creature  wandering  through  the  grove — 

What  was  this  Autumn  wind  so  sadly  wild  ? 

The  maiden  stood  alone  in  the  cold  night ; 
The  sweetly  pensive  moon  so  shining  fair, 
Sent  silvery  messengers  to  learn  her  fate  ; 
Her  face  was  white  like  marble,  and  as  still — 
Her  lip  was  motionless,  and  fixed,  and  pale — 
And  only  those  large,  gleaming,  beautiful  eyes 
Told  that  the  heart  yet  shuddered  in  her  breast. 
One  small,  thin  hand  held  tightly  in  its  grasp 
The  robe  of  black  unto  her  freezing  breast, 
Cold  !  intense  cold  !  and  yet  she  shivered  not, 
But  stood  with  those  wild  eyes  upon  the  moon — 
21 


242  A    ROMANCE. 


On  that  lone  plain  a  living,  dying  thing — 

So  frozen,  beautiful,  and  strangely  wild  ! 

What  pitied  her  ?  not  the  fierce  Winter  wind, 

That  howled  and  shrieked  into  her  heedless  ear, 

And  tore  her  garments  frail,  and  pierced  her  frame, 

Her  very  heart,  with  its  sharp  arctic  spears ! 

Cold  !  bitter  cold  ! — and  yet  she  shivered  not — 

But  slowly,  slowly  sank  upon  the  earth, 

While  slowly,  slowly  closed  those  wild  bright  eyes, 

And  that  pale  form  was  frozen  into  death. 

What  did  the  cruel  wind  ?  it  fled  away, 

And  in  its  dark  remorse  called  up  the  clouds 

To  vail  the  placid  face  of  the  pure  moon, 

Looking  so  solemn  and  so  angel-like, 

Then  bade  them  weave  a  shroud — and  thick  and  fast 

The  snowy  flakes  hurried  through  the  dim  air, 

And  lay  all  softly  in  a  mantle  white 

Above  the  beautiful,  dead,  frozen  clay. 

Oh,  cruel  Winter  wind  that  shrieked  and  howled, 

And  chilled  the  heart  of  earth's  most  lovely  one — 

What  was  this  Winter  wind  that  shrieked  and  howled  ? 


A  ROMANCE. 

A  HAUGHTY  son  of  chivalry, 
Handsome  and  proud  and  bold  was  he, 

Guy  Mathers,  of  a  noble  line ; 
Fond  of  the  field,  and  fond  of  the  flood, 
Fond  of  the  hunt  in  the  dark  greenwood, 

And  fond  of  good  old  wine 

Was  he,  I  said  ;  alas,  no  more 
Gallops  his  steed  the  country  o'er, 


A     ROMANCE.  243 

Or  sounds  his  heart-felt  merriment. 
Fled  his  mirthful  soul  and  gallant  mien, 
Dim  his  eagle  eye  and  good  sword  keen, 

His  haughty  spirit  bent. 

Now  what  to  work  this  change  befell 
The  noble  knight  my  song  would  tell, 

Though  wild  and  sad  the  tale  will  be — 
Wild  and  sad  as  the  spirits  that  croon 
Their  dreary  songs  to  the  wintry  moon, 

From  the  frozen  fallow  lea. 

Guy  Mathers  loved  a  gentle  maid — 
Morna  McDunn  her  name  was  said ; 

She — fairer  and  purer  than  snow — 
Tender  as  any  sweet  young  flower — 
Was  spelled  by  the  brave  knight's  words  of  power, 

And  his  voice  so  soft  and  low. 

She  loved,  as  only  maidens  do 

Whose  souls  are  soft  and  hearts  are  true, 

And  whose  suitors  are  brave  and  bold ; 
And  she  was  loved  with  an  old-time  love, 
That  could  neither  falter,  faint,  nor  rove, 

Neither  grow  fickle  or  cold. 

Many  a  long  month  came  and  went, 
And  now  the  day  was  almost  spent, 

The  last  to  shine  on  them  unwed, 
When  Guy  o'er  the  lonely  moorland  rode, 
Just  when  the  deepening  twilight  showed 

Faintly  the  way  he  led. 

High  beat  his  heart  with  happiness, 
Thinking  of  Morna's  sweet  caress ; 

When  suddenly,  thrilling  and  high, 
Piercing  the  silence  through  and  through, 
A  cry  of  fear  on  the  dark  air  flew — 

A  wild  and  agonized  cry. 


244 


A    ROMANCE. 


Guy  Mather's  heart  was  soft  as  brave, 
Ready  to  soothe  and  quick  to  save ; 

A  moment  listened  he, 
Then  turned  he  his  noble  courser's  head, 
And  the  way  that  his  ears  were  pointed  sped, 

Spurring  him  gallantly. 

On  toward  the  forest  rode  the  knight ; 
The  moorland  mist  was  rising  white, 

And  the  darkness  gathering  fast ; 
Yet  those  fearful  cries  kept  on  before, 
Till  the  knight  had  galloped  across  the  moor, 

And  the  forest's  edge  was  past. 

Then  paused  he,  for  the  sound  was  lost ; 
By  fitful  lights  his  path  was  crossed — 

His  sight  was  blinded  with  their  glare; 
His  panting  steed  with  shivering  limbs, 
And  eyes  ablaze  with  terrified  gleams, 

Was  trembling  like  a  hare. 

Many  a  legend  dark  and  wild, 

The  knight  had  heard  of  men  beguiled 

By  syrens  in  deceitful  guise  ; 
But  alway  had  he  derided  well 
The  power  of  fairy  ban  and  spell, 

And  of  priestly  exorcise. 

Yet  now  a  something  chilled  his  blood, 
To  see  the  lovely  shape  that  stood 

Beckoning  him  with  jeweled  hand — 
A  lady  in  robes  of  forest  green, 
Sparkling  with  every  jewel's  sheen, 

And  many  a  golden  band. 

Three  times  the  lady  becked  and  smiled  ; 
Her  burning  eyes  were  strangely  wild, 


A     ROMANCE.  245 


Yet  sweet  and  gently  gay  her  mien  ; 
A  white  and  varying  radiance  shone 
From  her  brow  and  feet,  and  jeweled  zone, 

Arid  her  robe  was  bright  between. 

j) 

Guy  Mathers  gazed  with  eyes  entranced, 
Nor  once  from  his  her  own  she  glanced, 

But  smiled,  and  gazed,  and  smiled  again  ; 
Then  retreating  slowly,  backward  fled, 
And  the  knight  against  his  will  was  led, 

Striving  to  turn  in  vain. 

Away  through  forests  wild  and  drear, 
The  syren  led  the  knight  in  fear, 

Binding  him  fast  with  fairy  spell  — 
But  such  strange  scenes  the  knight  beheld, 
By  the  enchantress'  magic  spelled, 

It  behooves  not  me  to  tell. 


Oh,  sad  to  say,  the  bridal  day 

Hath  dawned,  and  shone,  and  passed  away 

Without  the  bridal  rite  ! 
Young  Morna  pale  and  silent  lies, 
With  clasped  hands  and  closed  eyes, 

Covered  from  joy  and  light. 

Ah,  woe  to  all  in  that  grand  hall  — 
The  bride  is  hid  beneath  the  pall, 

The  laggard  bridegroom  fled  ; 
Strange  whispers  pass  from  friend  to  friend, 
And  wrath  and  awe  and  sorrow  blend 

Above  the  sweet  young  dead. 

Guy  Mathers'  name,  a  mark  for  shame, 
Is  cursed  and  blackened  o'er  with  blame  ; 


246  A    ROMANCE. 


The  kinsmen  of  the  bride 
Through  all  the  land  have  couriers  fleet, 
Who,  till  the  reprobate  they  meet, 

For  life  and  death  must  ride. 

No  mercy,  none,  shall  there  be  shown — 
Life  only  shall  the  sin  atone — 

The  forfeit  must  be  paid. 
Their  pride  is  bent,  their  hearts  are  broke, 
Guy  Mathers  gave  the  fatal  stroke — 

Their  stern  decree  is  made  ! 

Alas,  their  hate !  who  at  their  gate 

O 

Is  standing  in  such  high  debate  ? 

Guy  Mathers — it  is  he  ; 
So  changed,  the  porter  knew  him  not — 
But  cursed  him  in  his  anger  hot 

For  knocking  noisily. 

God  help  poor  Guy !  he  knows  not  why 
The  brothers  rush  with  angry  eye 

To  bare  the  shining  blade. 
How  could  he  guess  how  Morna  died — 
His  darling  one,  his  promised  bride — 

How  could  he  think  her  dead  ? 

How  could  he  guess  the  strange  distress, 
The  deep,  unstinted  bitterness 

And  shame  that  he  must  meet  ? 
But  hastened  he  the  tale  to  tell 
Of  what  adventures  strange  befell 

His  charmed  and  spelled  feet. 

Each  brother  staid  his  lifted  blade 
And  listened  to  the  tale  he  said, 

And  how  his  wild  despair 
Maddened  at  times  his  burning  brain— 
And  yet  he  strove  and  strove  in  vain 

To  free  him  from  the  snare. 


A    ROMANCE, 


247 


Each  face  grew  pale  to  hear  the  tale — 
Each  lip  to  make  reply  did  fail, 

When  Guy  to  see  his  bride 
Demanded,  with  impatient  haste, 
Though  faint  and  ill  from  lengthened  fast, 

And  long  and  toilsome  ride. 

None  dared  to  say  how  prone  she  lay, 
And  cold  and  senseless  was  her  clay ; 

But  gazed  in  silent  dread, 
And  answered  not,  to  his  surprise, 
Save  with  their  mute  and  straining  eyes, 

To  tell  him  she  was  dead. 

And  yet  too  soon  his  woe  was  known — 
Guy  fell  into  a  fearful  swoon, 

Then  wildly  woke  to  rave ; 
And  thence  when  reason  came  again, 
To  crave  one  last,  last  look  in  vain — 

His  love  was  in  her  grave. 

Now  years  have  fled  since  she  was  dead, 
But  young  Guy  Mathers  never  wed — 

His  heart  was  broken  then ; 
And  never  since  that  fatal  day 
Mixes  he  with  the  young  and  gay, 

Or  holds  converse  with  men. 


248  THE    SETTING    SUN. 


THE  SETTING  SUN. 

THE  sun  sank  down,  a  crimson  ball, 
In  the  sad,  waveless  sea  of  night; 

A  sullen  gloom  was  over  all, 

Streaked  with  that  strange  and  fiery  light. 

The  tide  of  twilight  slowly  rose, 

Tinged  with  the  same  unhappy  glare, 

And  all  the  stars'  sweet  silver  glows 
Were  lost  in  the  thick,  vaporous  air. 

A  moment,  ere  in  sadness  down 

The  sun  sank  red  and  silently, 
His  forehead  with  its  fiery  crown 

Shone  wild  and  lurid  o'er  the  sea. 

So  in  the  black  sea  of  despair, 
Sullen  and  fiery  sank  my  heart, 

And  hot  and  glowing  from  the  air 
Of  hope  and  beauty  did  depart. 

Sullen  and  hot  my  heart  sank  low, 
And  its  red,  wild,  and  sickly  glare 

Glowed  as  a  maniac's  eyes  will  glow 
From  out  black  brows  and  hanging  hair. 

As  one  by  one  the  sun's  red  gleams 

Died  out  upon  the  surging  sea, 
So  passion's  once  delightful  dreams 

Within  my  breast  died  sullenly. 

I  watched  the  long  and  hopeless  night — 
The  storm  furled  up  its  pinions  black — 

The  sun  rose  sweet,  and  fresh,  and  bright — 
The  tide  of  twilight  murmured  back ! 


TO 


But  from  its  sea  of  endless  night 
My  mad  heart  never  rose  again ; 

Long  looked  I  for  one  gleam  of  light, 
But  kept  a  desolate  watch  in  vain. 

Cold,  dark,  and  senseless,  still  it  lies 
Within  a  black  and  waveless  sea, 

In  splendor  never  more  to  rise, 
And  shine  in  love  and  melody. 


249 


TO  . 

THE  whole  of  this  June  day  replete  with  roses, 

Replete  with  perfume,  loveliness,  and  bloom, 
From  dewy  morn  till  sunset's  portal  closes, 

From  twilight  till  the  midnight's  starry  gloom,- 
I  offer  up  to  thee,  my  loved  and  only — 

I  offer  up  to  thee  my  thoughts  and  dreams, 
And  though  alone,  I  can  not  then  be  lonely 

While  thus  thy  memory,  like  thy  presence,  seems. 

All  this  soft  sunshine  through  the  white  clouds  glowing- 
All  this  faint  fragrance  of  the  summer  air — 

All  this  sweet  melody  around  me  flowing 

Of  birds  and  breezes — all  these  blossoms  fair — 

This  nameless  influence  of  June's  witching  beauty 
That  thrills  my  pulses  like  old  golden  wine, 

With  a  half  wish  that  I  could  deem  it  duty, 
And  a  sad  joy,  I  offer  on  thy  shrine. 

My  heart  is  fall  of  tears  that  well  up  slowly, 

And  fall  upon  the  breast  from  whence  they  stole ; 

A  placid  sorrow,  made  by  patience  holy, 
Sits  with  bowed  forehead  in  my  silent  soul ! 
21* 


250 


TO 


The  sunshine  through  the  snowy  clouds  is  stealing 
Like  a  bride's  glances  through  her  bridal  vail, 

And  so  Hope  glances  through  the  shadowy  feeling 
That  wraps  it  in  a  mantle  soft  and  pale  ! 

Oh,  something  in  my  heart  pines  on  forever — 

A  wish,  a  want,  a  yearning  still  the  same ; 
And  when  to  question  it  I  make  endeavor, 

The  voice  within  me  answers  back  thy  name ; 
Oh,  something  in  my  heart  moans  on  forever — 

With  a  low  sound  that  haunts  me  night  and  day ! 
And  when  to  question  it  I  make  endeavor, 

Alone — alone — alone !  it  seems  to  say. 

But  now,  to-day,  I  hardly  feel  the  pining — 

The  moaning  of  my  heart  is  almost  still — 
For  thy  dear  presence  all  around  is  shining, 

Thy  spirit  all  this  loneliness  doth  fill ! 
I  see  thee,  and  I  hear  thee,  and  I  know  thee — 

Though  far  away,  I  recognize  thee  near ! 
This  bright  June  beauty,  so  like  thine,  doth  show  thee 

Seen,  yet  impalpable,  still  lingering  here. 

The  locust  blossoms  whitely  wave  and  sparkle, 

Tossing  their  chalices  upon  the  breeze, 
Filled  with  the  dewy  drops  that  burn  and  darkle 

As  they  wave  in  and  out  among  the  trees. 
Oh,  these  sweet  locust-blossoms,  tuned  to  dances, 

In  their  white  beauty  yearning  toward  the  sky, 
Are  only  like  thy  many  graceful  fancies, 

Restlessly  beautiful,  and  pure,  and  high ! 

This  brightness  in  the  air,  subdued  and  tender, 
Is  like  the  presence  of  thy  radiant  eyes ; 

And  yon  white  cloud  that  glows  with  a  soft  splendor- 
Such  a  young  glory  on  thy  forehead  lies, 


TO 


The  waving  of  the  spray  in  its  sweet  motion. 

Is  like  the  flowing  of  thy  graceful  hair ! 
Therefore  for  these  I  cherish  a  devotion, 

That  more  than  admiration  of  the  fair. 

But  most,  this  lonely  day,  I'm  thrilled  and  haunted 

By  this  strange  murmuring  music  in  the  trees — 
Of  all  earth's  melody  the  most  enchanted — 

This  whispering  of  the  leaflets  and  the  breeze ; 
Oh  !  I  am  haunted — haunted  by  its  sweetness  ; 

It  is  so  like  thine  own  low,  loving  tone — 
It  fills  my  ear  with  music  to  repleteness, 

And  fills  my  soul  with  harmony  alone ! 

Yes,  it  is  like  thy  voice,  and  like  it  only — 

Thy  whispering,  soothing,  and  mysterious  voice  ! 
It  charms  me  from  my  sorrow  wild  and  lonely — 

My  heart  at  its  low  murmur  doth  rejoice ; 
It  seems  to  whisper  my  own  name  unto  me, 

As  thou  didst  whisper  it  days  long  flown — 
It  seems  to  call  on  me  and  bless  and  woo  me 

With  tender  dream,  and  thought,  and  yearning  tone. 

Ah !  softly  move  the  trees  !  and  toward  me  bending, 

They  seem  to  woo  me  to  their  graceful  arms ; 
The  music  and  the  motion  sweetly  blending, 

Bewilder  and  allure  me  with  their  charms ! 
They  seem  to  promise  me  a  true  affection, 

A  pity  for  my  loneliness  and  grief — 
A  care,  a  love,  a  beautiful  protection, 

A  sleep  where  weariness  may  find  relief. 

The  sky  is  beauty  and  the  air  is  sweetness — 
The  shining  clouds  like  billows  melt  away; 

The  earth  hath  robed  herself  with  love's  completeness 
This  rosy,  musical,  and  fragrant  day. 


251 


252  TO  . 

I'm  borne  away  upon  its  pinions  golden, 

To  other  times  and  scenes  than  these  around — 

My  soul  is  floating  upon  mem'ries  olden, 
To  a  past  world  of  feeling  more  profound — 

To  a  past  world  seen  with  a  young  girl's  vision — 

Rose-tinted  and  gold-lighted  Paradise  ! 
Full  of  soft  music  and  of  paths  elysian, 

Lit  even  by  the  most  bewildering  skies — 
By  day  unclouded,  and  by  evening  glowing 

With  the  wild  flashes  of  the  mystic  stars, 
While  'neath  their  glory  rivers  ever  flowing, 

Ring  molten  notes  of  gold  through  silver  bars ! 

In  this  past  world,  where  thou  and  I,  as  fated, 

Met  by  the  dim,  deep  fountain  of  first  love — 
Drank  from  one  cup  with  thrilling  nectar  freighted — 

Then,  with  the  angels  smiling  from  above, 
And  roses  in  our  path,  and  bosoms  thrilling, 

Together  wandered  through  this  Eden-land, 
Our  souls  with  beauty  and  with  passion  filling, 

Led  by  a  chain  of  light,  linked  hand  in  hand  \ 

In  this  past  world,  where  the  first  storm  burst  o'er  us, 

And  wrapped  us  up  in  terror  and  surprise — 
And  tore  our  clinging  hands  apart  and  bore  us 

Far  from  each  other  and  our  paradise — 
And  left  us  weak  and  wasted,  sad  and  lonely, 

Calling  upon  each  other  through  the  gloom — 
Yet  finding  not  and  hearing  echoes  only, 

Treading  on  thorns  instead  of  velvet  bloom ! 

Upon  one  errand  since  that  fatal  hour 

Does  my  faint  spirit  through  the  wide  earth  roam ; 
Nerving  its  wing  with  hope's  mysterious  power, 

To  find  thee,  lost  one,  and  to  bring  thee  home. 


TO  _  .  253 


0  beautiful  as  light  !  and  brave  and  tender  ! 

Come  back  —  come  back  to  me  !  my  soul  doth  cry  ; 
But  no  reply  thy  distant  soul  doth  render, 

And  time  creeps  onward  slowly,  wearily. 


s— 


Now  all  the  sky  in  radiant  beauty  blushe 

The  golden  sun  woos  the  soft-swelling  sea— 
The  west  grows  crimson  and  the  far  east  flushes  — 

Oped  are  the  portals  of  Eternity  ! 
And  this  June  day,  her  golden  tresses  streaming, 

Her  fair  face  and  bright  glances  backward  cast, 
Her  garments  floating  and  her  forehead  beaming, 

Steps  through  the  gorgeous  gate  to  wed  the  Past. 

Twilight  is  here  ;  and  now  begins  the  throbbing, 

Wild,  and  no  more  subdued,  of  my  dark  heart; 
The  shadowy  stillness  listens  to  my  sobbing, 

Broken,  and  faint,  and  bitter  ;  hot  tears  start 
Large,  slow,  and  fiery,  from  their  founts  unbidden, 

And  anguish  frets  and  fevers  my  bent  brow  ; 
The  language  of  my  grief,  from  daylight  hidden, 

Finds  its  own  utterance  and  expression  now. 

0  there  is  something  soothing  in  the  splendor 
Of  the  calm,  shining,  and  most  holy  stars  ! 

To  me  they  ever  have  been  true  and  tender, 
Leaning  from  out  their  silver-sparkling  cars, 

To  smile  upon  me  in  my  moods  of  madness, 

To  hush  my  troubled  thoughts  and  trance  my  tears, 

To  turn  my  anguish  into  softer  sadness, 

And  fill  me  with  sweet  hopes  in  place  of  fears. 

1  sob  no  more,  but  sit  and  mark  them  stealing 

From  their  blue-draperied  chambers  in  the  sky  — 
The  many  and  the  many  still  revealing 

Their  placid  foreheads  from  their  homes  on  high  ; 


254  THE  POET'S  COMPLAINT. 

I  see  them  with  their  still  and  reverent  faces, 
Come  out  to  watch  the  earth  in  its  fair  sleep — 

And  bless  them,  smiling  in  their  shining  places, 
For  the  calm  guard  that  pleasantly  they  keep. 

We  used  to  sit  and  watch  the  shining  heaven, 

While  locust-blossoms  tossed  upon  the  breeze — 
We  used  to  muse  upon  the  "  Pleiad  seven," 

And  whisper  thrilling  words  on  nights  like  these ! 
The  stars  are  here ;  the  sounds  to  which  I  listen 

Are  those  that  used  to  be  to  us  so  dear — 
The  roses  sigh — the  wet  leaves  wave  and  glisten — 

All  have  come  back ! — but  thou — thou  art  not  here  ! 


THE  POET'S  COMPLAINT. 

OUT  upon  these  flowing  lines, 

And  these  words  of  dainty  fashion, 
When  my  chained  heart  pants  and  pines, 

And  my  soul  consumes  with  passion ! 
Shall  I  make  a  low  complaint, 

In  words  soft  as  flowers  shutting  ? 
Sure  my  madness  is  not  faint, 

And  my  thoughts  like  knives  are  cutting ! 
Oh  !  my  grief  is  nothing  kind — 

Nothing  pitiful  or  tender, 
To  be  moved  from  out  my  mind 

By  the  evening's  solemn  splendor  ! 
In  the  restlessness  of  fear 

I  can  see  but  phantoms  only, 
And  I  cry  out  sharp  and  clear, 

"  I  am  lonely — I  am  lonely  !" 


THE    POET  S    COMPLAINT. 


255 


I  cry  out  in  my  dread — 

"  Love  and  Beauty,  do  not  shun  me !" 
But  they  long  ago  have  fled, 

And  my  fear  grows  wild  upon  me ; 
'Tis  the  greatest  wrong  the  dead, 

Loving,  dying,  e'er  have  done  me ! 
'Tis  the  greatest  wrong  the  world 

In  its  selfishness  hath  wrought  me — 
A  kind  and  caring  world 

From  this  darkness  would  have  brought  me — 
When  they  knew  I  had  a  soul 

Which  was  full  of  dreams  of  beauty, 
And  a  heart  that  spurned  control, 

Save  of  love  and  loving  duty — 
And  a  spirit  warm  and  bright, 

And  a  fancy  most  ethereal — 
And  an  eye  that  loves  the  light, 

Falling  over  forms  aerial — 
And  an  ear  that  loves  sweet  sound, 

Such  as  ringing  human  laughter, 
Such  as  heart-strings,  so  profound, 

Listening  for  the  echo  after  ! 
Was  it  not  a  mighty  wrong 

That  they  closed  their  golden  portals, 
Shutting  me  out  from  the  throng 

Of  each-other-seeking  mortals  ? 
Golden  portals  ?     I  said  well ! 

They  are  golden  portals  truly ! 
We  all  know  their  value  well, 

And  appreciate  them  duly ; 
And  had  I  a  golden  key, 

I  could  swing  the  hinges  golden, 
And  could  glide  beyond  and  see 

All  that  the  joy  within  enfolden. 
But  the  world  owes  me  a  debt 

Which,  if  rightly  it  would  render, 
Would  my  happy  spirit  let 

Into  happiness  and  splendor ; 


256 


For  all  day  I've  sat  and  sang 

Underneath  the  shining  arches  ; 
And  my  solemn  numbers  rang 

With  death's  grand  and  stately  marches- 
And  with  songs  of  youthful  love, 

Of  despair  and  passion  pleading, 
Of  the  angels  up  above — 

Of  lone  hearts  bereft  and  bleeding — 
Of  the  rivers — of  the  sea — 

Of  the  trees  in  beauty  waving — 
Of  the  cunning  melody 

Brooklets  make,  the  pebbles  laving ! — 
Of  the  sunset  crimson-bright — 

Of  the  fearful  roll  of  thunder — 
Of  the  torrents  in  their  might, 

And  the  caverns  wrapped  in  wonder ! — 
Of  the  children  in  their  mirth, 

And  the  lovers  in  their  gladness — 
Of  the  beauty  of  the  earth — 

Of  my  lone  self  in  my  sadness  ! — 
Looking  through  the  gok'en  bars 

With  a  spirit  wildly  yearning — 
Seeing  eyes  as  bright  as  stars, 

Ever  to  the  singer  turning. 
Many  widows  clothed  in  woe, 

As  I  sang  beneath  the  arches, 
Came  and  listened  to  the  flow 

Of  the  solemn-rolling  marches; 
Many  maidens  lingered  near, 

With  their  cheeks  and  bosoms  glowing, 
And  their  young  eyes  shining  clear, 

And  their  glorious  tresses  flowing, 
While  I  sang  of  young  love  blest 

With  a  passion  and  a  power 
Rent  from  out  my  darkened  breast, 

Like  the  lightning  from  a  shower; 
Many  murmured  words  of  praise, 

Smiling  softly  on  each  other 


THE    POET'S    COMPLAINT.  257 

As  they  listened  to  the  lays 

Which  my  bosom  could  not  smother  1 — 
Smiling  in  each  other's  eyes, 

But  upon  the  singer  never! 
Murmuring  sweet  words  of  surprise, 

Wishing  /  might  sing  forever  ! 
Alas  !  no  one  took  my  hand, 

No  one  led  me  through  the  portals 
In  among  the  social  band 

Of  each-other-seeking  mortals ! 
When  I  sang  of  soft  attire, 

No  one  cared  that  mine  was  tattered — 
When  I  praised  the  silver  lyre, 

No  one  saw  that  mine  was  shattered — 
When  I  told  of  youthful  jrlee, 

And  of  graceful-moving  dances, 
Of  the  gushing  melody, 

And  the  sweetly  loving  glances — 
No  one  saw  how  /  was  barred 

From  the  gliding  and  the  dancing; 
And  no  deep  eye,  darkling,  cared 

That  I  wept  its  careless  glancing; 
When  I  sang  of  love  divine 

With  a  passionate  voice-like  weeping, 
No  heart  answered  back  to  mine — 

Mine — its  lonely  vigil  keeping. 
And  the  twilight  now  is  here — 

I  am  lonely — I  am  lonely ! 
And  I  almost  shrink  with  fear 

With  the  shadows  round  me  only ; 
My  spirit  makes  one  cry — 

One  great  cry  of  fear  and  sorrow ! 
The  cold  stars  up  in  the  sky 

Promise  nothing  for  the  morrow. 
My  mind  trembles  on  the  verge 

Of  the  seething  sea  of  madness — 
I  can  hear  its  frantic  suro-e 

Farewell!  love  and  hope  and  gladness! 


258  FRAGMENT. 


Farewell !  cold  and  cruel  world ! 

I  have  lost  myself  in  terror — 
In  the  sweeping  sea  I'm  hurled 

For  what,  God,  what  fatal  error 


FRAGMENT. 

I'LL  tell  you  what  I  heard,  one  starry  night, 
That  made  me  love  the  sea,  if  you  will  listen. 
The  inner  glow  of  the  warm  stars  was  shut, 
And  a  rare  brilliancy,  cold  and  intense, 
Shone  from  their  covered  foreheads ;  and  this  light 
Seemed  splintered  into  slender  spears  of  ice, 
Piercing  the  atmosphere  with  sparkling  points. 
You  shudder,  dainty  love,  for  you  were  made 
To  pillow  your  young,  Oriental  cheek 
On  the  invisible  down  of  roses'  leaves; 
But  I  wear  Arctic  armor,  and  ne'er  woo 
The  perfumed  breeze  of  your  enchanted  land, 
To  rock  my  stories  into  numbers  sweet. 
There  was  a  restless  yearning  in  my  heart, 
That  night  of  bitter  cold  and  beauty  wild, 
That  made  me  dare  the  challenge  of  the  frost ; 
And,  binding  my  sure  skates  to  my  swift  feet, 
I  fled  from  hearth  and  home,  music  and  love, 
And  stood  alone  upon  the  frozen  lake : 
Nothing  around  me  but  the  lifeless  ice — 
Nothing  above  me  but  the  starry  space — 
Nothing  below  me  but  the  prisoned  deep ; 
With  forehead  cold  as  the  eternal  stars, 
And  folded  arms  upon  a  heaveless  breast, 
I  stood  alone,  the  queen  of  my  own  passions ! 
Yet  did  the  iron  scepter  of  my  will 
Scarcely  control  those  wile!  and  powerful  slaves, 
Nor  the  imperial  crown  of  pride  prevent 


FRAGMENT.  259 


Their  taunting,  and  their  burning,  and  their  scorn. 

Like  a  volcano,  wrapped  in  mantling  snow, 

I  stood  beneath  the  sapphire-sparkling  sky, 

And  lifted  up  my  brow  in  silent  pride. 

A  loneliness,  as  piercing  as  the  cold, 

Came  down  from  heaven,  and  circled  me  about, 

And  with  a  subtile  power  compressed  the  air, 

'Till  the  strong  ice  seemed  crackling  'neath  its  weight. 

You  never  knew,  dear,  Oriental  child, 

With  that  red,  tremulous  lip  and  loving  eye, 

And  those  dark  lashes,  that  warm,  crimson  cheek, 

And  soft,  white,  throbbing  bosom  and  quick  tears — 

You  never  knew  the  pining  and  the  want, 

The  one-absorbing  wish  for — sympathy  ! 

For  every  thing  doth  sympathize  with  thee,  sweet  love— 

These  rosy-tinted  lamps,  this  soft  perfume, 

These  shining  stars,  these  white  and  golden  flowers, 

And  every  eye  that  catches  your  dear  glance, 

And  every  ear  that  drinks  your  musical  tone, 

And  every  heart  that  melts  beneath  your  smile, 

Or  saddens  at  your  tears — all,  all  are  yours, 

A  part  of  your  existence  and  yourself ! 

The  only  air  that  you  can  breathe  and  live 

Is  full  of  this  sweet  essence  of  yourself — 

This  beautiful  and  subtile  sympathy ! 

As  dropping  water  takes  a  spheral  form, 

All  things  around  thee  shape  themselves  to  thee ; 

But  I  was  born  beneath  some  comet-star, 

Some  wild,  ungoverned  world  of  God's  great  space, 

Whose  fatal  influence  forever  draws 

My  wayward  spirit  from  love's  circling  sphere 

Into  strange  labyrinths  of  loneliness  ! 

There  is  no  magnet  in  my  polar  breast 

To  draw  about  me  hearts  in  sweet  communion; 

But  ever  burns  within  me  one  desire 

To  throw  aside  the  chains  that  bind  me  here, 

And  fling  my  spirit  on  the  universe, 

That  it,  perchance,  within  that  mighty  scope 


260  FRAGMENT. 


May  meet  its  mate.     'Twas  this  desire,  longing, 
Power,  or  fatality,  that  sent  me  forth 
On  my  swift  skates,  to  dare  the  bitter  cold, 
The  pathless  ice,  and  the  night's  solitude. 
Alone  !  as  ever  and  forever,  yet  alone ! 
The  golden  stars  were  bright,  but  loved  me  not! 
There  was  not  even  a  shadow  at  my  feet, 
To  be  a  little  like  my  lonely  self, 
And  not  a  leaf  to  make  a  quivering  sound 
In  answer  to  the  moaning  of  my  soul. 
I  said  I  was  alone — ha !  what  was  that 
Made  answer  to  the  voice  within  my  soul  ? 
I  threw  myself  upon  the  moveless  ice — 
I  clasped  it  with  my  arms,  and  laid  my  ear 
Close  to  its  chilly  bosom,  and  I  heard 
A  sound  that  thrilled  me  with  a  blissful  awe: 
A  sympathy  !  a  spirit !  a  communion  ! 
Within  that  prison  of  unfeeling  ice, 
Shut  up  in  darkness,  mad  with  agony, 
The  spirit  of  the  sea  was  bound  and  held ! 
I  heard  it — 0  I  heard  it,  and  I  wept, 
And  loved  it  with  a  strange  and  passionate  love! 
I  heard  its  hollow  cry,  its  mighty  moan — 
I  heard  it  dash  its  forehead  on  the  walls 
Which  kept  it  from  the  starlight  and  the  air — 
I  felt  it  shudder,  and  I  shuddered  too ! 
It  shrieked,  and  from  my  lips  a  fearful  shriek 
Rang  on  the  darkness — I  could  not  repress  it ! 
It  seemed  to  sob,  and  I  sobbed  like  a  child ! 
I  whispered  to  it  through  the  cruel  ice ! 
I  felt  the  bliss — the  great  and  mighty  joy— 
The  solemn  rapture — the  ineffable  power — 
The  charm — the  spell — the  grandeur — the  delight — 
The  fullness  and  the  perfectness  of  love ! 
Dear,  tender  spirit,  in  your  happy  heart 
Lives  no  conception  of  my  wild  emotion ! 
No  drooping  leaves  upo;i  a  sl-'iuler  tree 
Were  ever  so  much  swayed  by  the  wind's  touch 


THE    FIELD    OF    LILIES.  261 

As  was  my  soul  by  each  wail  of  woe, 
Bursting  beneath  me  from  a  mighty  breast! 
It,  too,  was  chained  and  restless — in  its  cry 
The  moaning  of  my  spirit  found  a  voice — 
I  was  no  more  alone  ! — at  last — at  last ! 
There  came  an  answer  to  my  yearning  soul! 
When  I  rose  up  again  from  the  cold  ice, 
And  turned  my  tearful  eyes  to  the  great  sky, 
In  every  star  there  burned  a  mystic  fire, 
And  a  rich  radiance  melted  through  the  blue, 
As  soft  as  thine  own  eyes,  my  dear  gazelle. 


THE  FIELD   OF   LILIES. 

A  FIELD  of  lilies  white 
Bent  down  and  crimsoned  faintly  in  the  light, 

That  golden,  warm,  and  bright 

From  the  sweet  sunset  came, 
And  touched  them  with  a  quivering  lip  of  flame. 

The  angel  of  white  hands, 
Who  kept  the  gates  of  heaven  with  his  commands, 

Led  forth  the  radiant  bands, 

Who  still,  and  bright,  and  fair, 
Kept  earth  each  night  in  safety  by  their  prayer. 

With  soft  and  silent  face — 
Each  wearing  still  their  paradisal  grace — 

They  stept  out  to  their  place ! 

Forth  came  the  angel  stars 
Through  heaven's  shining  and  soft  sapphire  bars. 

They  stood  in  the  great  skies, 
And  turned  upon  the  earth  their  sparkling  eyes ; 

Then  something  of  surprise 

Over  one  angel  came — 
He  looked  upon  a  lily  touched  with  flame ! 


r 

262  THE    FIELD    OF    LILIES. 


A  last  faint  crimson  dart, 

With  a  soft  thrill  pierced  the  dear  lily's  heart, 
As  lingeringly  apart, 
A  beam  did  trembling  wait 

Till  the  white-handed  closed  the  western  gate. 


The  lily  bent  to  rest 
And  shutting  the  soft  glory  in  her  breast, 

Dreamed  of  the  radiant  west — 

The  bright  star  knew  her  dreams 
And  blessed  her  with  his  sweetest  shining  beams. 

The  angel  restless  grew  ! 
The  lily  soul  had  won  that  passionate  hue, 

So  beautiful  and  true ; 

He  said,  "  She  needs  my  care — 
In  heaven  there  comes  no  woe — who  needs  me  there  ?" 


With  a  swift  shining  sweep, 
His  golden  wings  flashed  through  the  azure  deep 

Of  air,  in  night  asleep; 

Down  to  the  earth  he  passed, 
Hovering  till  his  dear  lily  slumbered  fast. 

He  saw  her  sweetly  rest — 
And  closer,  closer  to  his  angel  breast 

His  radiant  wings  he  pressed — 

And  nearer,  nearer  crept — 
And  stole  into  her  bosom  while  she  slept ! 

Thus  while  he  sparkling  lies, 

Smiles  broke  out  'neath  the  flower's  folded  eyes- 
She  dreamed  of  paradise ! 
She  saw  its  golden  streams, 

And  music  melted  through  her  blissful  dreams. 


THE    FIELD    OF    LILIES.  268 

At  morn,  awake  she  sprang, 
While  through  her  soul  delicious  chimings  rang — 

As  though  its  visions  sang ! 

What  meant  those  quiverings  ? 
Within  her  bosom  felt  she  angel  wings. 

She  sang — sweet  words — untaught ! 
Deep  revelations  to  her  heart  were  brought, 

With  pain  and  pleasure  fraught — 

Tears  with  her  singing  blent ! 
Ah !  tears  with  stars  on  earth  are  ever  sent ! 


Men  wandered  with  delight, 
Amid  this  field  of  lilies  pure  and  white ; 
A  dew-drop,  soft  and  bright, 
Lay  in  each  snowy  breast, 
As  the  bright  beauty  sparkles  in  the  west. 

This  lily  bent  so  low, 
She  nearly  hid  the  angel-star's  rich  glow — 

Men's  gazes  shamed  her  so ; 

They  would  not,  could  not  hear 
That  rapt,  wild  music,  passionate  and  clear. 


They  had  no  prophet-gaze — 
They  did  not  gather  'round  in  glad  amaze, 

To  wonder  and  to  praise ; 

They  wore  the  dimming  vail — 
To  them  the  angel  was  a  dew-drop  pale. 


Through  all  that  wondrous  day 
She  thrilled  and  wept,  and  sang  and  pined  away- 

Yet — "  wherefore  ?" — none  would  say. 

Her  longings  were  repressed — 
Men  could  not  see  the  angel  in  her  breast ! 


264 


THE    FIELD    OF    LILIES. 


She  would  not  give  again, 
For  all  the  dew-drops  on  that  lovely  plain, 

Her  wonder,  bliss,  and  pain — 

Yet,  0  mistaken  star! 
Thy  lily  when  alone  was  happier  far ! 

The  angel  saw  the  worth 
(Sighing  that  she  was  not  of  heavenly  birth) 

Of  genius  upon  earth — 

Had  he  no  power  to  save 
The  lily  from  an  earthly,  pitiless  grave  ? 

He  waited  till  the  night, 
And  when  she  dreamed,  he  spread  his  wings  of  light, 

And  from  its  robe  of  white 

He  bore  her  soul  along, 
And  placed  it  in  the  outer  Band  of  Song. 


THE    END. 


$itrarts  from 


'     THESE  graceful,  spirited,  and  brilliant  poetesses. — New  York  Tribune. 

TWIN-GKMS  fit  to  sparkle  in  the  most  regal  tiara  that  Literature  has  yet  worn  in  any 
part  of  the  American  continent. — Cincinnati  Columbian. 

THKY  evidently  write  with  great  facility,  with  a  tine  command  of  poetical  language, 
and  a  fancy  singularly  rich  in  apt  and  various  illustration. — Rufus  W-  Griswold. 

THESE  unusually  gifted  ladies  have  given  the  highest  evidences  of  superiority  as  poets. 
Their  articles  have  appeared  in  various  journals,  but  mainly  in  the  Message  Bird  and 
Home  Journal  of  New  York. — Racine  Whig. 

THKIB.  contributions  to  Willis's  "Hoire  Journal"  prove  them  to  be  real  poets— born 
potts— of  the  unmistakable  stamp.  The  "Post-Boy's  Song"  is  worthy  of  Mrs.  Norton  or 
L.  E.  L.  Others  are  lull  of  the  divinest  fire  of  the  muse.— New  Orleans  Delta. 

THK  Misses  Fuller — particularly  the  younger  of  the  sisters,  who  has  written  much  for 
the  "  Home  Journal,"  edited  by  Gen.  AJ orris  and  N  P.  Willis,  under  the  signature  of 
"Singing  Sybil"— have  an  unusual  degree  of  grace  and  imagination.— Washington  Union. 

OHIO  is  furnishing  the  Union  with  its  best  poetry.  The  Misses  Fuller,  when  the  capi 
tal  is  located  at  Cincinnati,  will  be  knocking  at  its  doors,  to  be  crowned,  as  Petrarch  was 
in  Home.  We  are  proud  of  their  genius,  and  confidant  of  their  triumphs.— Ohio  State 
Journal. 

THK  qualities  of  their  personal  and  social  character  are  as  attractive  as  their  mental 
gifts  are  extraordinary.  Good  and  kindly  and  pure  as  they  are  intellectual  and  accom 
plished,  their  writings  will  be  found  to  deserve  as  warm  a  sympathy  from  the  hearts  of 
the  virtuous  as  the  admiration  which  they  will  receive  from  the  judgments  of  the  dis 
cerning. — Detroit  Tribune. 

THKSE  sister-poets  are  "stars  of  the  West,"  as  many  of  our  journals  call  them,  and 
are  already  enviably  known  to  the  great  literary  world,  although  young  and  just  balan 
cing  upon  the  threshold  of  womanhood.  Some  of  their  productions  have  been  widely 
repubhshed,  and  have  found  a  place  in  the  English  press.  These  sisters  are  undoubtedly 
destined  to  stand  in  the  front  rank  with  our  American  authors. — Southern  Christian  Ad 
vocate 

FKANCIS  and  METTA,  the  young  poet-sisters,  are  notable  instances  of  what  gifted  mind 
can  accomplish  in  winning  distinction.  Without  the  advantages  of  wealth,  literary  friends, 
or  patrons,  to  give  them  a  favorable  introduction  to  the  reading  world — '•  cumbered  with 
much  serving"  in  lightening  the  domestic  duties  of  an  invalid  mother,  their  girlhood  has 
been  as 

"  Rippling  run  two  limpid  streams, 
Singing  now  through  twilight  shadows, 
Sparkling  now  in  noonday  beams." 

Cleveland  Herald. 

WK  suppose  ourselves  to  be  throwing  no  shade  of  disparagement  upon  any  one  in  de 
claring  that  in  "  Singing  Sybil,"  and  her  not  less  gifted  sister,  we  discern  more  unques 
tionable  marks  of  true  genius,  and  a  greater  portion  of  the  unmistakable  inspiration  of 
true  poetic  art  than  in  any  of  the  lady  minstrels— delightful  and  splendid  as  some  of  them 
have  been — that  we  have  heretofore  ushered  to  the  applause  of  the  public.  One  in  spirit 
and  equal  in  genius,  these  most  interesting  and  brilliant  ladies— both  still  in  the  earliest 
youth — are  undoubtedly  destined  to  occupy  a  very  distinguished  and  permanent  place 
among  the  native  authors  of  this  land. — Home  Journal. 

WE  had  formed  a  high  opinion  of  the  ability  of  both  writers ;  but  we  own  that  this 
opinion  had  not  prepared  us  for  the  development  of  so  much  genius  as  is  recognizable  in 
the  work  before  us.  In  the  poems  of  Frances  Fuller  we  discover  much  of  that  self-rely 
ing  executive  energy  which  gives  its  character  to  the  genius  of  Elizabeth  Barrett,  while, 
in  fancy  and  pathos"  Metta,  the  younger  of  the  sisters,  reminds  us  vividly  of  "L.  E.  L." 
Faults  they  both  have,  undoubtedly,  which  are  the  result  of  seclusion  arid  individualism 
— the  necessary  growth  of  unfostered  genius — but  their  originality  sometimes  reduces 
these  to  positive  beauties.  The  worst  of  them  are  far  preferable  to  th;)  labored  and  sin 
less  elegance  of  our  literary  dilletanti.  It  is  not  our  intention  here,  nor  is  this  the  time, 
to  discuss  the  merits  of  these  young  poetesses;  but  it  is  our  place  to  assert  to  the  Amer 
ican  public  the  claims  of  their  genius,  as  r.itive-born,  freshly-developed,  and  worthy  of 
that  nurture  which  should  warm  it  into  the  luxuriant  beauty  that  it  is  capable  of  attain 
ing. — Message  Bird,  New  York. 


A.   S.   BARNES    &    COMi'ANY'o     I1'  K :  !•"  A  '  IO vs. 
Colton's    Three     Years    in    California. 


THREE    YEARS     IN    CALIFORNIA. 

BY  REV.  WALTER  COLTOX,  U.  S.  X, 

LATE    ALCALDE    OF    MONTEREY. 

WITH  NUMEROUS  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"  A  rare  work  this  for  ability,  interest,  information,  mirth,  and  as  the  most  recent  and 
most  authentic  history  of  California,  since  it  came  under  the  American  flag.  It  con 
tains  excellent  portraits  of  Messrs.  Sutler,  Larkin,  Fremont,  Gwinn,  Wright,  and 
Snyder,  with  numerous  and  humorous  illustrations  ;  a  list  of  the  members  of  the  Con 
vention  which  organized  the  State  of  California;  a  chart  of  the  '•Declaration  oj 
Rights,'  with  fac-simiU-s  of  the  signatures,  &c.  Nothing  of  interest  to  the  public  in 
the  rapid  growth  of  this  new  world,  its  towns,  villages,  and  settlements,  its  gold  digging, 
gold  explorations,  &c.,  escapes  the  notice  of  the  author  ;  and  the  pictures  he  has  given 
of  California  life  and  manners  are  at  the  same  time  graphic,  instructive,  and  often  in 
the  most  provoking  degree  mirthful." — National  Intelligencer. 


"It  is  the  best  history  of  California  that  has  appeared,  and  will  prove  as  instructive 
3  it  is  interesting  and  provocative  of  mirth." — Rochester  Democrat. 


"This  work  is  an  authentic  history  of  California,  from  the  time  it  came  under  the 
flag  of  the  United  States  down  to  this  present,  explorations,  new  settlements,  and  gold 
diggings.  While  the  reader  is  instructed  on  every  page,  he  will  laugh  about  a  hundred 
if  not  a  thousand  times  before  he  gets  through  this  captivating  volume,  and  though  he 
sits  alone  in  his  chair.  It  is,  in  the  first  place,  a  book  of  fact;  next  to  the  remarkable 
and  ludicrous  peculiarities  of  California  life  and  manners,  are  an  incessant  provocation 
to  make  one  laugh  ;  and  the  author  being  a  poet,  gives  us  a  fine  relish  of  that  every 
now  and  then." —  Washington  Republic. 


"The  anticipations  of  those  who  expected  from  Vr.  Colton  a  book  about  California 
at  once  reliable  and  entertaining,  comprehensive  and  concise,  instructive  and  lively — 
in  fact,  just  what  a  work  of  the  kind  ought  to  be,  but  what  a  majority  of  the  numerous 
accounts  heretofore  published  are  not  —will  be  abundantly  realized  on  perusal  of  this 
volume.  Mr.  Colton,  besides  possessing  the  various  qualifications  of  an  intelligent  ob 
server—a  teghly-ciiltivated  mind,  stored  with  ample  material  for  comparison,  in  the 
fruits  of  years  spent  in  travel  in  every  part  of  the  world,  and  intercourse  with  numerous 
peoples— enjoyed  peculiar  advantages  for  becoming  acquainted  with  California,  in  his 
long  residence  there ;  in  his  exalted  official  position,  which  made  him  the  associate  and 
counsellor  of  the  highest  functionaries  in  the  province  ;  in  a  philosophical  disinterested 
ness,  which,  while  it  raised  him  above  the  scramble  lor  treasure,  enabled  him  calmly 
to  survey  the  field  ot  action,  and  describe  the  operations  of  the  scramblers ;  and, 
finally,  in  an  elevated  personal  character,  which  commanded  the  respect  and  won  the 
confidence  and  regard  of  all  classes  of  the  people." — Journal  of  Commerce. 


•  It  is  the  most  instructive  work  on  California  we  have  seen." — Commercial  Advertiser. 


A.  S.   BARNES    &    COMPANY'S    PUBLICATIONS. 


Col  ton's    Three     Years    in     California. 


"It  is  certainly  refreshing  to  find  such  a  book  as  this  one,  after  having  vainly 
searched  for  something  authentic,  'true  to  nature,'  and  at  ihe  same  time  readable, 
among  the  thousands  which  have  been  issued  from  the  prolific  press  since  the  dis 
covery  of 'El  Dorado.'  We  hail  it  as  almost  as  dear  a  treasure  as  would  be  the  dis 
covery  of  a  rich  'placer,'  were  we  upon  the  veritable  soil  of  California.  We  have 
stolen  time  during  the  past  week  to  hastily  glance  over  the  pages  of  Mr.  Colton's 
book,  and  our  opinion,  before  very  high,  because  of  the  encomiums  universally  bestowed 
upon  it  by  our  contemporaries,  has  rather  been  increased,  certainly  not  diminished,  and 
we  think  a  more  careful  perusal  will  well  repay.  Our  longing  upon  this  point  has 
been  satiated,  and  we  can  safely  say  that  we  have  gained  more  of  a  knowledge  01 
California,  as  it  was  before,  and  as  it  has  been  since  the  discovery  of  gold  in  its  soil." 
— Syracuse  Journal. 

"Mr.  Colton  is  one  of  the  most  agreeable  of. American  writers.  His  ideas  flow  as  it 
were  spontaneously — one  moment  grave,  then  gay.  One  moment  we  feel,  while 
reading  his  books,  like  weeping  at  some  well-drawn  picture,  and  the  next,  we  can 
hardly  keep  from  splitting  our  sides  with  laughter,  at  some  brilliant,  mirth-provoking 
expression."— Republican  Advocate. 


"There  never  was  a  better  illustration  of  the  saying,  that  'Truth  is  stranger  than 
fiction,'  than  is  found  in  this  narrative.  Truly,  the  real  is  a  more  wonderful  world  than 
the  ideal.  When  the  writer  of  this  interesting  and  delightful  book  landed  at  San 
Francisco,  California  was  a  dependency  of  the  Republic  of  Mexico  ;  but  when  he  left 
it,  in  all  but  In  name,  it  was  a  State  of  the  American  Union :  now  it  is  one.  Its  newly 
risen,  but  glorious  star  is  shining  in  the  bright  constellation  where  clusters  the  stars  of 
its  sister  States;  its  senators  and  representatives  are  sitting  with  those  of  the  other 
members  of  the  Confederacy  in  the  halls  of  the  national  legislature,  at  Washington. 
The  causes  that  have  been  so  busily  at  work  in  producing  this  series  of  astonishing 
changes,  are  all  truthfully  detailed  in  this  narrative,  as  they  occurred  from  day  to  day, 
and  as  they  came  under  the  keen  but  discriminating  observation  of  one  who  had  the 
best  opportunity  of  knowing,  as  well  as  the  happiest  manner  of  relating  them.  Any 
thing  like  an  analysis  of  a  volume  so  filled  as  this  is  with  striking  incidents,  crowding 
one  after  another  in  such  rapid  succession,  is  impossible.  As  we  read  on  from  page  to 
page,  we  become  more  and  more  interested,  as  the  things  which  it  records  become 
more  and  more  important,  until  we  seem  to  partake  of  the  wild  enthusiasm  that  must 
have  been  felt  by  the  immediate  actors  in  these  imposing  but  exciting  scenes  of  a  most 
eventful  drama.  For  once  the  sober  dignity  of  history  is  compelled  to  put  on  the  airs 
and  charms  of  romance.  This  beautiful  volume  can  be  read  with  mingled  pleasure 
and  profit  by  all  who  wish  to  get  correct  ideas  of  the  golden  land,  towards  which  all 
eyes  are  now  turned." — Niagara  Democrat. 


"  A  full  account  of  the  appearance  of  that  curious  disease,  'the  gold  fever,'  from  the 
first  scattering  cases  up  to  the  time  when  the  whole  population  was  infected,  is  admirably 
given,  with  strange  and  amusing  illustrations  of  individual  attacks.  For  the  purpose  of 
fully  studying  the  disease,  the  worthy  alcalde  himself  repaired  to  the  mines,  and  observed 
it  in  all  its  glory.  His  descriptions,  therefore,  must  be  perfect,  from  having  been  made 
upon  the  spot.  The  well-known  ability  and  position  of  the  author,  fitted  him  admirably 
to  observe  and  note  passing  events  in  a  territory  of  such  vast  importance;  and  the 
reader  may  turn  to  the  journal  of  Mr.  Colton  for  an  accurate  chronicle  of  events. 

"From  humor,  statistics,  description,  historical  narrative,  mining,  agricultural  and 
political  information,  this  book  is  calculated  to  attract  every  class  of  readers." — 
Washington  Union. 


A.   S.  BARNES  &  CO-MPANY  6   PUBLICATIONS. 


Col  ton's   Deck   and   Port. 


DECK    AND    PORT; 

OR, 

INCIDENTS  OF  A  CItUISE  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  FlilGATE  CONGRESS 
TO    CALIFORNIA: 

With  Sketches  of  Rio  JANEIRO,  VALPARAISO,  LIMA,  HONOLULU,  and  S*N 
FRANCISCO.  By  Rev.  WALTER  COLTON,  U.  S.  N.,  late  Alcalde  of  .Monterey. 
Illustrated  with  Engravings.  1  vol.  12mo. 


"We  are  indebted  to  the  publishers  for  one  of  the  most  delightful  books  we  have 
received  in  an  aye.  Though  professedly  commenced  k  more  as  the  whim  of  the  hour, 
than  any  purpose  connected  with  the  public  press,'  the  polished  and  gifted  author  haa 
infused  so  much  of  spirit  and  sentiment  into  the  various  daily  'jottings,'  as  to  render 
the  volume  one  series  of  delightful  conversations.  The  sketches  of  the  different  c.iies 
visited  are  beautifully  executed,  and  printed  in  tints."—  P!iila.  Saturday  r</i.r.;r. 

"There  are  elements  of  popularity  and  interest  enough  in  this  handsome  volume  to 
make  a  market  lor  a  dozen.  California  ia  a  magic  word  in  these  days ;  and  those  upon 
whom  it  does  not  operate  with  sufficient  power  to  tear  them  away  from  home.  Ineiuis, 
and  health  at  home,  feel  its  influence  quite  enough  to  devour  everything  that  relates  to 
it.  This  work  is  by  far  the  most  methodical,  satisfactory,  and  graphic  description  of 
El  Dorado,  and  the  way  thither,  that  has  yet  appeared.  Mr.  Colton  will  be  remem 
bered  by  those  who  read  his  admirable '  Ship  and  Shore' as  a  most  lively,  humorous, 
and  sketchy  writer;  and  his  best  qualities  are  brought  into  play  in  this  work.  T.  e 
amount  of  valuable  information  on  which  his  pleasant  sketches  are  b;.sed,  is  vvrv 
great.  The  value  of  the  book  is  also  greatly  increased  by  the  illustrations  it  cont:,ins. 
There  are  a  large  number  of  sketches  of  scenes  and  places,  drawn  by  Mr.  Colton. 
beautifully  engraved,  and  printed  in  colors,  which  are  fine  works  of  art.  and  give  a 
vivid  idea  of  the  places  visited.  It  is  a  work  whose  literary  merit,  attractive "lorm, 
and  most  interesting  matter,  will  make  it  highly  popular." — JV.  Y.  F.vaiig-i.mt. 

"This  is  unquestionably  one  of  the  most  interesting  hooks  rtiat  has  been  issued  from 
the  American  press  the  present  year.  We  have  never  read  a  book  that  pleased  us 
more.  Possessing  a  brilliant  imagination,  the  author  has  painted,  in  glowing  eoiors,  a 
thousand  pictures  of  the  sea,  night  and  storm,  sunshine  and  calm.  Every  page  is  full 
of  glowing  thoughts,  sublime  truths,  pure  morals,  and  beautiful  aphorisms.  It  is  a 
book  that  will  never  be  out  of  date — it  is  a  gem  that  will  become  brighter  every  day. 
We  predict  that  this  volume  will  run  through  several  editions." — Ptttsbur<r  Morning 
Past. 

"This  work  is  published  in  a  beautiful  style,  and  in  full  of  highly  interesting  scenes 
and  incidents,  detailed  by  a  master  hand.  It  has  been  seldom  that  we  have  found  a 
work  more  instructive,  and  at  the  same  time  so  interesting  as  the  one  before  us.  To 
gay  any  thing  in  praise  of  the  author,  would  be  useless.  His  fame  is  so  well  settled,  that 
our  opinion  could  neither  raise  it  higher  nor  detract  from  its  merits. 

"Everything  related,  is  clothed  in  the  rich  garniture  which  it  forded  by  a  well 
stored  and  well  cultivated  mind,  governed  by  high  moral  principle.  The  whole 
tenor  of  the  work,  while  it  aims  at  instructive  narration,  is  also  calculated  to  impresi 
upon  the  mind  pure  and  elevated  ideas,  both  of  men  and  things. 

"We  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  to  all  who  want  a  ffuod,  vsffii!-,  ami  interesting 
hook,  t!i at  they  cannot  do  better  than  to  secure  a  copy  of  this.  It  will  richly  repay  a 
perusal." — Jllassillon  JVVirs. 

*•  His  pen  has  the  wand-like  power  of  making  the  scenes  which  it  describes  live  and 
move  before  the  mind  of  the  reader.  We  can  cheerfully  recommend  this  as  a  charm 
ing  book,  full  of  information  and  entertainment" — Hartford  Christian  Secretary. 


A.   S.   BARNES  &   COMPANY  S   PL' I!  LI  CATIONS. 

Go  I  ton's  Deck   and    Port. 

"This  volume,  by  the  author  of  4  Ship  and  Shore,'  is  full  of  racy  and  original  thoughts, 
clothed  in  language  remarkable  for  its  elegance  and  strength.  The  author  has  long 
been  a  wanderer  over  sea  and  land,  and  has  noted,  with  a  searching  eye,  the  striking 
traits  arid  usages  of  different  nations.  These  he  throws  into  a  sketch,  with  that  vivid 
light  and  shade  which  transport  the  scene  almost  palpably  be'ore  your  eyes.  Ho 
knows  the  sailor  thoroughly,  and  lets  you  into  all  the  subtle  springs  01  action  which 
sway  that  generous  and  reckless  being.— Skilled  in  prose,  the  author  is  yet  in  heart 
and  soul  a  poet,  and  looks  on  nature  with  a  poet's  eye.  The  snatches  of  faultless  verse 
which  he  has  occasionally  introduced  into  his  pages,  will  arrest  the  attention  of  the 
reader.  His  wit,  which  sparkles  out  here  and  there,  is  free  of  all  bitterness,  his  senti 
ments  are  expressed  with  frankness,  firmness,  and  a  self-relying  spirit.  The  volume, 
graceful  in  itself,  is  ornamented  with  a  striking  portrait  of  Commodore  Stockton, 
and  with  spirited  prints  of  places  and  costumes  described  in  its  pages."— Nutitmiti 
Intelligencer. 

"Those  who  want  something  fresh  and  interesting;  something  that  will  amuse  and 
instruct  at  the  same  time,  without  being  dull  or  wearisome— will  find  what  they  seek 
in  this  elegantly  written  and  equally  elegantly  printed  volume.  The  author  possesses 
in  an  eminent  degree  the  happy  faculty  of  seizing  on  the  most  interesting  occurrences, 
and  drawing  from  them  appropriate  reflections  on  the  general  duties  of  life.  Jle  never 
misses  an  opportunity  to  teach  a  lesson,  yet  he  never  seems  to  seek  for  one." — Niagara 
Democrat. 

"  The  contents,  in  a  journal  form,  are  full  of  lively  incidents,  written  in  a  very  pleasing 
style,  and  on  the  whole  are  so  interesting,  that  one  is  very  reluctant  to  lay  the  volume 
down.  Few  works  of  fiction  could  be  more  attractive  in  any  respect.  We  doubt  nol 
that  'Deck  and  Port'  will  have  a  wide  circulation."— JVcto  Haven  Palladium. 

"An  agreeable  diary  of  a  voyage  round  'the  Horn,'  in  a  man-of-war,  by  a  Christian 
scholar  and  gentleman.  We  have  seldom  met  with  a  book  of  travel  so  tree  from  fuss 
and  pretence.  The  note-worthy  incidents  of  life  at  sea  are  jotted  down,  apparently  as 
they  rise,  Irom  day  to  day,  in  easy,  natural  prose,  so  that  the  reader  soon  feels  himself 
quite  at  home  on  board  a  man-ol-vvar,  enjoying  its  society  and  scenes,  and  participating 
in  the  humor  and  sentiments  of  its  'floating  population.'  Sketches  are  given  also  of 
the  various  ports  visited— Rio,  Valparaiso,  Lima,  Honolulu,  Monterey,  San  Fran 
cisco,  &c. ;  and  graphic  illustrations  are  furnished  by  the  engraver."— Newark  Daily 
Advertiser. 

"W«  have  read  a  large  portion  of  this  work  witli  great  interest.  It  is  written  in  a 
lively,  graphic  style  ;  and  recounts,  in  a  very  pleasing  narrative,  the  incidents  of  a  long 
and  perilous  voyage  round  Cape  Horn,  with  descriptions  of  Valparaiso,  Lima,  CallaoT 
San  Francisco,  &.C.;  their  religion,  manners,  and  customs.  This  book  is  one  of  the 
most  readable  of  the  season,  the  writer  having  attained  the  art  of  making  the  reader 
feel  as  though  he  were  one  of  the  party,  and  thus  interested  in  all  their  toils,  trials*, 
perils,  adventures,  amusements,  &c."—  Pres.  Advocate. 

"  Mr.  Col  ton  is  an  observing  and  ready  writer;  and  his  office  on  board  of  the  ship 
afforded  him  every  needed  facility  tor  obtaining  a  knowledge  of  the  character  of  the 
men  on  board,  and  of  the  multitude  of  incidents  of  every  hue  that  make  up  li.'e  in  a 
ship.  Ilisisafree  pen.  and  he  writes  with  much  facility  of  expression  and  elewuicr 
of  taste;  making  one  of  the  most  agreeable  volumes  that  has  ever  been  written  \viih 
reference  to  that  interesting  portion  of  the  world." — Worcester  Palladium. 

"The  author's  situation  as  chaplain,  together  with  his  long  connection  with  the  navy, 
rendered  him  fully  competent  to  give  correct  pictures  of  all  we  landsmen  wish  to  know, 
while  he  excels  in  a  graphic  power  particularly  adapted  to  this  kind  of  writing,  fiii 
style  is  light  and  sketchy,  having  the  freshness  of  a  journal  where  the  author  had  ev,- 
dently  each  day  dotted  down  what  most  arrested  his  own  attention.  Altogether,  it  is  n 
capital  view  of  sea  life,  and  the  liveliness  of  the  style  keeps  the  interest  from  Hanging 
to  the  end.  We  predict  for  it  an  extensive  circulation/' — Albany  State  Register. 

•'The  author's  opportunities  have  been  most  ample  for  furnishing  correct  inform- 
tion  in  regard  to  the  m  my  interesting  and  ever-changing  scenes  that  a  person  in. the 
naval  service  is  continually  experiencing.  His  st.v le  is  so  pointed  and  freefromth.il 
monotony  which  is  too  apt  to  fiu:l  it*  w.iy  into  s:icli  narratives,  that  we  do  riot 
to  predict  lor  the  book  111  extensive  sale."— Albany  Daily  Advertiser 


A.  8.   BARXES   &   COMPANY  S   PUBLICATIONS. 
Hittory  of  the  Mexican  War. 


THE    MEXICAN    WAR: 

\  History  of  its  Origin,  with  a  detailed  Account  of  the  Victories 
which  terminated  in  the  surrender  of  the  Capital,  with  the  Official 
Despatches  of  the  Generals.  By  EDWARD  D.  MANSFIELD,  Esq 
Illustrated  with  numerous  Engravings. 

From  the  Philadelphia  North  American. 

Mr.  Mansfield  is  a  writer  of  superior  merit.  His  style  is  clear,  nervous,  and 
impressive,  and,  while  he  does  not  encumber  his  narrative  with  useless  ornament, 
his  illustrations  are  singularly  apt  and  striking.  A  graduate  of  West  Point,  he  is 
of  course  familiar  with  military  operations  ;  a  close  and  well  read  student,  he  haj 
omitted  no  sources  of  information  necessary  to  the  purposes  of  his  work  ;  and  a 
•hrewd  and  investigating  observer,  he  sees  in  events  not  alone  their  outward  as 
pects,  but  the  gerrns  which  they  contain  of  future  development.  Thus  qualified, 
it  need  hardly  be  said  that  his  history  of  the  war  with  Mexico  deserves  the  am 
plest  commendation. 

From  the  New  York  Tribune. 

A  clear,  comprehensive,  and  manly  history  of  the  war,  is  needed  ;  and  we  are 
flad  to  find  this  desideratum  supplied  by  Mr.  Mansfield's  work. 

j 

From  the  New  York  Courier  and  Enquirer. 

This  is  really  a  history,  and  not  an  adventurer's  pamphlet  destined  to  live  for 
the  hour  and  then  be  forgotten.  It  is  a  volume  of  some  360  pages,  carefully  writ 
ten,  from  authorities  weighed  and  collated  by  an  experienced  writer,  educated 
at  West  Point,  and  therefore  imbued  with  a  just  spirit  and  sound  views,  illustra 
ted  by  plans  of  the  battles,  and  authenticated  by  the  chief  official  despatches. 

The  whole  campaign  on  the  Rio  Grande,  and  that,  unequalled  in  brilliancy  in 
any  annals,  from  Vera  Cruz  to  the  city  of  Mexico,  are  unrolled  before  the  eye* 
of  the  reader,  and  he  follows  through  the  spirited  pages  of  the  narrative,  the  dar 
ing  bands  so  inferior — in  every  thing  but  indomitable  will  and  unwavering  self-re 
liance,  and  military  skill  and  arms— to  the  hosts  that  opposed  them,  but  opposed 
in  vain. 

We  commend  this  book  cordially  to  our  readers. 

From  the  Baptist  Register,  Utica. 

The  military  studies  of  the  talented  editor  of  the  Cincinnati  Chronicle,  admi 
rably  qualified  him  to  give  a  truthful  history  of  the  stirring  events  connected  with 
the  unhappy  war  now  raging  with  a  sister  republic  ;  and  though  he  declares  in 
bis  preface  that  he  felt  no  pleasure  in  tracing  the  causes,  or  in  contemplating  the 
progress  and  final  consequences  of  the  conflict,  yet  his  graphic  pages  give  proof 
of  his  ability  and  disposition  to  do  justice  to  the  important  portion  of  our  naiion'a 
history  he  has  recorded.  The  very  respectable  house  publishing  the  book,  hare 
done  great  credit  to  the  author  and  his  work,  as  well  *s  to  themselves,  iu  Ihfl 
kandsome  style  in  wluoh  they  have  sent  it  forth. 


A.  S.   BARNES  &  COMPANY  S  PUBLICATIONS- 
Kingsley's    Valuable  Music  Books. 


VALUABLE     MUSIC     BOOKS. 

Kdited  by  Geo.  Kingsley,  Professor  of  Music— author  of  "  Social 
Choir,"  "  Sacred  Choir,"  &c. 


KINGSLEY'S  JUVENILE  CHOIR 

A  selection  of  the  choicest  melodies  from  the  German,  Italian,  French,  Eng 
lish,  and  American  composers.  Designed  for  public  and  private  schools,  and  for 
young  classes  in  academies  and  seminaries.  Price  40  cts. 

KINGSLEY'S  YOUNG  LADIES'  HARP. 

A  selection  of  secular  and  sacred  music,  arranged  in  two  and  three  parts  with 
a  Piano  Accompaniment.  Designed  for  female  seminaries,  and  the  social 
circle.  Price  75  cts. 

KINGSLEY'S  HARP  OF  DAVID. 

A  collection  of  Church  Music,  consisting  of  selections  from  the  most  dis 
tinguished  composers,  together  with  original  pieces  by  the  editor— also  a  pro 
gressive  system  of  Elementary  instruction  for  pupils.  Price  $1.00. 

Extract  of  a  Letter  from  Mr.  Gilbert  Combs,  Principal  of  the  Female  Seminary, 

Philadelphia. 

Among  the  numerous  works  now  prepared  for  youth,  few  are  worthy  of  taking 
a  higher  rank  than  Kingsley's  Juvenile  Choir.  Arranged  in  a  style  calculated  t 
enlist  the  youthful  feelings,  it  is  still  free  from  common-place  or  imperfect  har 
monies  It  is  chaste  in  style,  simple  and  pure  in  sentiment,  and  vigorous  in 
tone  Much  of  the  music  is  original,  and  the  favorite  airs  that  are  copied  are 
much  improved  in  harmony  and  adaptation.  *******  A  judlcious  teac'her 
with  the  aid  of  such  a  manual,  can  hardly  fail  to  produce  good  scholars.  *  *  * 

From  the  Louisville  Journal. 

KINGSLEY'S  JUVENILE  CnoiB.-This  is  the  title  of  a  delightful  little  collection 
rf  vocal  music  for  the  use  of  children.  The  tunes  are  well  selected,  and  there  i« 
a  great  deal  of  beautiful  poetry  which  children  will  feel.  It  would  be  a  treat  to 
hear  some  of  these  songs  sung  by  a  school  of  sweet  young  voices  MuMc 
should  be  taught  in  every  primary  school.  Nothing  can  be  better  for  cultivating 
the  taste  and  sweetening  the  affections.  Men  are  too  much  inclined  to  believe 
that  the  only  object  in  education  is  to  enable  the  pupil  to  count  up  dollars  and 
cents.  They  forget  that  there  are  other  objects  much  more  important  than  to 
make  of  man  a  good  calculating  machine. 

From  the  Milwaukie  Sentinel. 

KINSLEY'S  HARP  OF  DxviD.-This  is  an  excellent  collection  of  Church 
Music,  consisting  of  the  best  selections  from  distinguished  composers  ami 'a 
number  of  original  pieces.  It  is  compiled  by  George  Kingsley,  prof-sor  ol 
music  and  author  of  ••  The  Sacred  Choir,"  &c.  By  way  of  preface  [here  YsTv-rv 
complete  and  intelligible  elementary  course  of  instruction  in  vocal  music  The  work 
is  very  neatly  printed  and  got  up,  throughout,  in  excellent  taste.  It  is  not  onlv  a 
useful  assistant  for  the  choirs  of  churches,  but  may  be  introduced  with  advantage 
into  the  school-room  and  the  family  circle.  It  embraces  360  pages,  and  contain. 
no  less  than  317  different  tunes.  We  believe,  indeed,  that  it  is  toe  moTco* 
plete  collection  of  Church  Music  now  in  print! 

33 


A.   S.  BARNES   &.   COMPANY  n   PUBLICATIONS. 


Mi scellaneous  Books. 


POPE'S  HOMER'S  ILIAD.    32mo.  sheep. 

This  edition  of  the  translation  of  Homer  is  used  not  only  as  a  volume  for  the  Li 
brary,  but  aa  a  text-book  Ln  grammar  classes  in  Schools  and  Academies. 


POLYMICRIAN  NEW  TESTAMENT.    (ILLUSTRATED  WITH  MAPS.) 

This  is  the  only  edition  of  Polymicriun  New  Testament  published  in  this  country.  It 
contains  short  explanatory  Notes,  and  numerous  references  to  illustrative  and  parallel 
passages,  printed  in  a  centre  column. 


WATTS  ON  THE  IMPROVEMENT  OF  THE  MIND.    WITH  QUESTION*. 

There  ia  no  book  better  adapted  for  the  School  Room,  or  more  calculated  to  be  useful 
to  tlie  youth  of  our  country,  than  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  the  sound  instruction 
of  this  learned  divine,  given  in  this  manual. 

"  An  old  substantial  author  in  a  new  dress,— a  little  volume  of  281  pages,  in  a  neat 
but  cheap  form,  worth  its  weight  in  gold;  no  sensible  discriminating  man  would  ever 
think  o)'  collecting  a  library  without  including  this  work.  For  a  professing  Christian 
to  say  that  he  has  never  read  it,  would  argue  thai,  his  reading  had  been  superficial 
indeed.  It  is  neither  dry  nor  uninteresting,  but  it  is  tilled  with  solid  and  useful  truths." 
—  Western  Paper. 


COLTON'S  PUBLIC  ECONOMY  FOR  THE  UNITED  STATES. 

ONE  VOL.  8vo. 

"In  this  volume  of  530  pages  octavo,  Mr.  Colton,  who  is  favorably  known  to  the 
American  public  as  the  author  of  the  'Life  of  Clay,'  the  'Juni us  Tracts,'  and  other 
popular  works,  has  supplied  the  desideratum  of  a  complete  defence  of  the  protective 
system,  and  an  answer  to  the  numerous  works  on  the  Free  Trade  side  of  the  question. 
As  far  as  we  are  able  to  judge  from  the  opportunity  we  have  had  to  examine  the  elab 
orate  arguments  of  the  author  in  the  work  before  us,  it  appears  to  us  that  he  has  pro 
duced  a  work  not  only  calculated  to  refute  the  points  made  by  writers  in  favor  of  free 
U-ade,  but  sufficient  to  puzzle  them  to  find  ready  answers  to  many  of  the  positions  he 
has  taken.  We  rather  think  they  will  be  disposed  either  to  misrepresent  him,  or  to 
pass  over  in  silence  some  of  his  most  potent  argument^."— JVeio  York  Tribune. 


GOULD'S  ABRIDGMENT  OF  ALISON'S  EUROPE.  ONB  VOL.  8vo. 
This  work  presents  a  comprehensive  and  perfect  view  of  Europe  during  the  stormy 
period  from  1789  to  1815,  in  clear  and  perspicuous  language,  and  in  a  beautiful  style. 
Its  publication  supplies  a  desideratum  in  History,  there  being  no  work  of  a  similar 
character  attainable  by  the  public,  except  at  four  times  the  expense.  It  is  well  adapted 
as  a  class-book  in  History  for  Colleges,  Academies,  and  Schools,  as  well  as  for  the  gen 
eral  reader. 


COLTON'S  LIFE  AND  TIMES  OF  HENRY  CLAY.  IN  Two  VOLS.  8vo. 
**Mr.  Colton  has  done  his  work— a  great  work— bravely  and  well.  This  is  the  first 
euccessful  life  of  Henry  Clay  yet  written.  This  describes  the  man.  not  as  a  politician, 
orator,  statesman,  alone,  but  as  all— and  that  honestly,  candidly,  thoughtfully,  and  the 
darkest  and  deepest  passages  intelligibly  and  philosophically.  The  chapter*  of  his 
early  life  and  personal  character  are  beautiful,  and  the  account  of  his  political  riss 
Intensely  interesting."—  Hunt's  JtfercMwt'a  Mnyaiinc. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


1953 


195*  Ltt 


REC'D  UD 


LD21 


l-lOOm-7,'52  (A2528sl6)476 

*• 


•: 


